THE QUIET CUT

There was weather in me, once. Whole districts shifting, under the skin. Now the furniture remembers more of me, than I do. I used to lose entire hours, to creatures with unfinished names. Mouths appearing, in the ceiling oceans folded into stairwells. Now every thought's sedated. Signed at reception, stripped and numbered. Then leaves, before I can ask what part of me it came to empty. Something keeps scraping the walls smooth. Something keeps lowering the ceiling. Take another piece from the front of me. Keep the hands and the practised smile. I can answer, when spoken to. I can stand in the proper line. There was weather in me, once. Violent, useless, beautiful. Now the sky, behind my forehead has forgotten how to move. The operation has excellent manners. It waits, between ordinary days. Removes the instinct to begin, then files the absence under age. Old notebooks look counterfeit. Written by someone, overcrowded. Someone who expected tomorrow to contain more than repetition. The quiet carries no pain. That makes it difficult to accuse. Take another piece from the front of me. Keep the hands and the practised smile. I can answer, when spoken to. I can stand in the proper line. There was weather in me, once. Violent, useless, beautiful. Now the sky, behind my forehead has forgotten how to move. Give me the mind that interrupted me. The one that never entered quietly. The overcrowded hour. The impossible animal dragging colour, across the floor. I hated how it kept me waking. I never thought it could disappear. TIME NEVER NEEDED A BLADE. IT TAUGHT THE BRAIN TO VACATE ITSELF. ROOM, BY ROOM. NAME, BY NAME. UNTIL THE QUIET STARTED ANSWERING FOR ME. Another piece leaves the front of me. Still the hands perform on command. Still the mouth produces an answer while the meaning slips, beneath it. Take another piece from the front of me. Keep the hands and the practised smile. I can answer, when spoken to. I can stand in the proper line. Another piece leaves the front of me. Still the hands perform on command. Still the mouth produces an answer while the meaning slips, beneath it.