where are your poems?

thinking of the music you said you like. at the time
i swished music into my head, vivaldi or a season
maybe. my hands have been tied, they let me loose
for a few minutes in the day to scratch my itch
but by then, nothing comes. i write in red on the back
of diet plans, the old man comes round with the keys
looking for a lock, bees stumble over newly burst
flowers, swimming in scent, palpable as waves
and wings. i steal grommets of time, layer
them over a antimony and tin, heat them
into a cloistered vista, 1 gig of rom just to load.
you are the vector of my first wakening. the moon
fell into my mouth and disappeared, i slept
before i meant to, like some zen master, obeying
body because the metaphysical was tuning up
but not ready to orchestrate a longer day.