*It isn't brain surgery*

But time gone is brain
gone, and these tiny
bursts keep coming on:
the doctors look

worried and away
and want each other
to measure each other
to erase each other solid.

Our memories break water
that blocks up
the outflow, but we know
what we know and no more.

See, when the road forks
we will anticipate
shortcuts to the dawn,
we will manipulate

happiness. We will
press the electrode
lever and the memory
of our past

heads will crack.
In the mirror,
the smell of her hair
will likely disappear, so

fold away or bend over,
my deep brain puppy,
and in this sleep
feel our limbs with limbs

that feel like rain.
What do we want?
We still want people
we still want and we

still want to react.
Good things are happening.
Bad things are happening.
One option is surgery.