By Chris Cannam

I wake on the morning of New Year's Eve
to find my mind folded precisely in half
with a crisp, perfect crease. The sides
kept carefully separate and smooth with
thick, cold, rolling fluid, rolling out onto
my fat and silent tongue. Thickening frictionless
greed setting around the teeth, face smeared with
my unconvincing smile, warm, unkept breath.

My blood has turned to ham. My heart is only able
to talk in ridiculous lies.