Procedure (Break Time Poetry)

In the valley of fluorescence
a narrowing conch
hiding a benevolence
underneath and above and outside of the things that limbed creatures should be doing
outside of myself,
looking down as a figure that knows not how to fly, mostly hover;
translucent
and afraid of what will happen
when the wind picks up
and retrieves
the rubbish
all around.
“Is this my place? Up here,
down below? A few steps to the left, or the right?
Is there policy for this direction forthwith?” No procedure for this.
And in my bedhead,
translucent as well, and loud to the touch,
these fingers,
these broken pointers
can no longer heal or cause
a damn thing.

j