It’s too loud and I can’t see--which

I mean in the most literal sense, that

My grandfather’s voice is a pale grey-pink and

That the number 22 tastes like lemon bars and

That it’s too loud and I can’t see.

 

I wish I could discern any of the words

That seem to be getting faster

And at the same time slower

And red and black

And I can’t move

Because of the warm steely cotton

Surrounding my face.

 

I don’t know what to do

With my hands, only that

They should be anywhere

But folded or crumpled or whatever you’d call it

Against my neck because

I could be covering my ears

Or the sides of my face

Or they could be loose(?) by my sides

So I can pretend to be someone

 

Who can say

What, exactly, I’m doing,

Who can say anything at all,

Because I can’t;

I’m too busy flinching at the quick white flares of shouts

And I’ve backed into the wall, most likely (who can say?),

Because it’s too loud

And I’m dizzy

And I would say something if I could hear myself

And I can’t see.