ITCH

ITCH

they held me down in the produce section
naked ass on fresh cut greens, recently misted
the sounds of thunder across the aisle
to remove a fish from under the skin of my foot
a flesh fossil remained under the loosened flap of skin

before this, months ago, it was a baby removed from my neck
these dreams, like repo ghosts come collecting
a strange fear/pain/release/relief trajectory
the yank and bleeding of ingrown psychic refuse

carl jung lights his pipe
feels the rotund tree of his being
detects the faint humming of the universe
building an itch in the furthest, most tucked
drowsy uselessness of his aged scrotum
he crosses and recrosses his legs
the match's heat biting the knuckle of his fat thumb

his thought experiment disrupted
he smokes and walks the grounds
allowing the sack to air itself
spring chill through loose trousers

once around the grounds
halfway through the pipe
hidden itches and burned knuckles forgotten
he's back to the fantastical maybe
casting his net to set the hidden universe of mind into eyelet holes
sewing a net of galaxies
a diagnostic system of the ineffable

the fish and the baby freely roaming