Lauren Camp: Thought Disorder

Let’s admit he wanders and we’re back to the year before. No one
wants to make the call. We
take him to concrete. Take him and take him and leave

the room. And then a day in Miami and he said
a week in July. He’s not there. He’s excited. Dusk raises
its light. We like him. We wake up

to doses of side effects. Another chant of heat-tinted dust. Whole days
roll open. We pay
to burst spots on his scalp. Pray for the subject

to stretch and recover, and we return
to the original vicinity where a life
story is watching the water. No trace of anyone’s memory. Dusk

comes along twice. We step out. It’s guile and greeting
all night. He moved to Florida
for a few minutes. Yesterday he was having sex

in Hong Kong with a woman in shorts. The world was
surface and normal. Another way out. We have had 68 discussions, and need
to admit Florida is the only

horizon. There is no one
to call. In overlapping directions, we follow him and he repeats
when our mother was erased when he

was returning the plastic bidet, when the message arrived
in his absence. Yesterday we stepped out. There’s a chart
on the wall, there’s a palm tree at dinner and everyone

to ask. We like him, we pray, and we hover. We squirrel
his clothes that are falling
apart. We carry the experts and tell how our father is a house

and this is unbearable, the cost of the brain and months
with butter. Aren’t we foolish with sheets, our chapped lips, days crossing
to worse? Every day

he wears every hat, and then a day the air
drags over the summer. We like him. He wakes up. This year
began with each departure. Imagine a season and we’ll go on. By all means.