palindrome
My brain is a palindrome,
an ouroboros, a circle,
a loop of alternating current.
You can see the neon and filaments
all lit up like a small-town Christmas
or an amber alert or a stadium scoreboard.
Or maybe it’s more like
the Pangea of a clown head
in a lite brite long lost to an attic corner
with baby shoes and photographs of weddings.
If there’s no one there to arrange
the colorful bulbs two pinched fingers and a thumb at a time,
then what happens to this metropolis of light?
I imagine each thought
coming online like streetlamps
over a highway. That whooshing sound
of thinking and cars. My brain is a clover leaf,
a roundabout, an airport terminal abuzz in its own blinking.
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