Feste's Lute

The words fall off
a duck’s beak
in a spiral. Leafed
tendrils extend in
the disturbed vapors, agitating
your vision, drawing exposed
eyelids upward
in inverted
blinks. The mist congeals
around your wrists,
settling tremors
of heaped, tactile memories.
On your forehead, an index
presses inward. Fingered,
the seem splits and your
skin shifts awareness,
folding inward through
yourself. Quadrangles trawl
deserts, triggering lightning
that reaches your couch,
face still receeding.