Daisies in Summer

I am staring,
                   hypnotised
by the front loader washing machine

the curve of the plastic
covering gloom like an excuse
it’s flashing me
                           socks with sheep on them; the corner of pink underwear
                           pressed up against the plastic like a

                           hand in a horror film

it reflects me sitting on the ground
warped like a funhouse mirror
                      or a camera lens
            or Hal.

I’ve been here for twenty minutes, at least
the only thing I can feel is the cold on my ass
and the clusterfuck of anxiety that sits under my lungs like
                                                                                    tangled christmas lights

My reflection is all about the hands
which are clasped over my bent legs.

Inside, I think of my clothes

the reason they’re in there
is that
they stink of Berlin

cigarettes
from the spatis, the tiny gay bars, the opulent dance complexes
where people wear sneakers and somehow forget to be still
the musk dust smell of the
verboten buildings
their ajar doors
                   a gentle hand beckoning
                                                         to come c l o s e r

all of that is being churned out of my clothes

it’s like they keep changing their minds
they roll one way,
then another

this could be the port hole of a ship
I could be going on a voyage

but, you know, I’m here
feeling a little bit lost
                                      at sea

sometimes I feel like
I would build him a house in my belly
                                      othertimes
he is like running razorblades lengthwise
down my lips

I’m contemplating consulting daisies
                                           from the flower shop

no daisies will grow in this cold
daisies are a summer flower

summer, where my city is
summer, where my postcard poems
               sit on desks and walls
summer, where people
               think of me and

               my thoughts burn