at rush hour. awake.
in my pocket watch. i hide
for their thoughts and mine collide.
i burrow and migrate to the poles
where the polars play, in the pitiful precipitation
when winter meets summer
where a cold can fold into a fever
washy whirlwinds in my mind
a spicy tingling down. rigidly
to fight me would be your wish.
besides the tuna.
on a roundhouse dish.