+
My occipital lobe descends to images of torn
skin, compounded bones that rake the earth. Marks
hashed on my back for each day I cannot locate myself
in reality. Ravines between lobes
where I find my mouth
calling out to reorient
myself
somewhere
on the islands of this brain.
I cannot cover a continent with this spongy sphere,
cannot project my mind’s flat map
of blood or its sharp seize of pain
onto other topography. Location
is an illness spreading
through my tissue in attempt to
locate itself on the borders
of my brain.
