Other People’s Thoughts

On the little hairs of my arms,
on my cheeks and on my soles,
on the moles of my crooked back…

everywhere.
Everywhere other people’s thoughts have stuck.
Like dust the colour of earth
that came while I wasn’t looking.

And I start to spit on them.
To knead and rub. To stir.

I weep over them.
I roll out the mixture.

I sprinkle on a few guesses of my own.
And a pinch of questions.
I leave it to bake in the sun.

I taste.
A new flavour.