Who Counts

you are sneezing through your hands,
twelve minutes past just over 300 degrees

you head, no-necked man
on the sit
ticking to the rain inside
purple meads
lego blocks crowding rooftops,
lonely attachments

fingerless man,
holding the feeling of just then
museumed
for the privileged
few who pay their fees
with footsteps through second
hand-me-downs

look at the wallpaper rocks
decide there are violins. et
you have a metronome