Bank Run leaves holes for shadows.
A passing landscaping rake jangles about;
Screaming demons spring into the light.
Now I see the appeal of self delusion:
Pretending the rake doesn't exist,
Ignoring the clamor.
Eventually the damn breaks,
Memories rush in,
Instantly the picture complete.
Meaning understood though too late to change.
Even sand is foolish, imperfect.
I now wish my brain to be an ocean:
An indefatigable expanse not long marred by the tines.