burrs

as i drove
a million ideas
percolated
through the
swiss cheese
in my skull

i whispered
to the lone hawks
and the various
murders of crows
even one poor
cold horse standing
miserably in a
woolen coat
munching on hay
in a metal rack
her breath in
an anxious cloud
as she listened
to me ramble

but now that i
am reattached
to the couch once more
there is just
a headache with
tiny burrs stuck
in impossible to
reach crevices
like feeling a
piece of food with
your tongue but
your idiot fingers
cannot remove it

still a million ideas
just inaccessible
to a fool who cannot
not tell every hawk
about the wildflowers
in her perfect smile

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