fifty-two pick up of the mind

My consciousness would seem

but a pack of playing cards strewn across a floor — and I bruised knees and ruddy face fumbling on all fours to pick up each thought or memory or fear or want

or each blurred inkling of something that might only exist in-between a dream and the waking hour. But no order emerges from this free-for-all; neither suit nor color —

neither rank nor number aid me.

And in desperation I pair up memories and fears and dreams and wants and smells and truths and sights and sounds and textures together with no rhyme or reason.

But what does it matter? 

I drop the cards and once again

they’re strewn across the floor.