No need for driving rain
to wash you. I prefer messes,
I consoled myself.
There wasn’t anything
true about that.
I only wanted to write
like a shirt turned inside out, tags
gone cryptic upside down.
To create a vague sense
of discomfort.
A rock in the shoe, a piece of floss
stuck between teeth.
Like driving around
the city of your birth
but out where
all the new shops went in.
A set of cul-de-sacs
to destroy you.
Like a tonic,
a talisman, you repeat:
keep your palm
on the left-hand side.
No matter the maze, that’s how
you’ll find your way out.