In Mist

There was a scream, 
a howl. Something, somebody 
had scuttled the platter. 
You stop and frisk yourself, 
and as if the red ants had 
started coming out from your 
eyes. 

It wets the script. An apparition. 
A dove flutters in the chest. A 
fantasy, like you leave your body. 
A window opens, shuts. Opens, shuts. 
One vestigial flicker of the miasma 
unsettles, the tree culture, 
The undersides of the tongue becomes blue. 

Do you know, you read 
from the back side of the brain? 
Have you heard the hindsight? 
Yes, sometimes, means no.