Little Growth

my brain is in a nest

the nest
is
the shape
of your head

but really

it’s a hand covered in white hair
waving
at me through the sun,
a blindfold,
an arch
of
black cloth.

I closed your mouth for you.
It was an amazing act
of puppetry

somewhere
the solar system burns
like a toxin, like ipecac
like peace

and your head
is an empty sack, woven by
me

my singular eye