Descending into familiar caves and homes
of the upside down town of my brain
a hand to hold, to call my own
like sprinkles and sunshowers
it never rains hard or deep
just enough
pasteurized and unfiltered
when all the layers
morph into one, sandwiched
between the illogical rivers
and electric algorithms, neon signs
slug wrestling in a tin garden
made of plastic flowers
surrounded by siding
that changes from rubber to linoleum to water
as fast as the eyes under blankets of skin.