by Erin Malone

My head is a guest, a Gulliver
parting the dirt, eyes at the earthworms
then up. Firs around my shoulders.

When I walk I carry the scene.
Cubed, the sky is itself but groomed
to change more slowly. Exhale of clouds:

I balance the books
& straighten & still. The thud
in my ears is a big bass drum.
I shout to hear myself think.

I stuck my head in a house.
Something turned over.