The back of my brain is bored

The back of my brain is bored

Now that I know writing on camp mats is allowed
I collect the little black bugs
that nub my collarbone
and hold them snug.

My face under the coloured canvas is enchanted.
I snap my fingers, sing songs
push my fists into my eyes
until I see blue skies, light globules
and hypnogogic incubi.

I see I am in deep in with Seurat.
This summer illusion is sick of windows.
I ask air to give me white walls,
red crosses
colours that pick themselves apart.

Instead I get emails
broadsheets and printer paper.