I can hear children crying for their mothers
Their cries grow louder
Until I identify
Them as screeching cats
I see white sparks
retrace a broken spiral. Exhale the gallon
To my toes, my head to a table
My neck is a treb’s axel. I blink a dozen white flies
I dreamt of a regular night out
Walking past a row of restaurants
Lit boxes like aquariums along the road.
As we walk farther I see the same diner
Again and again in random patterns. We settle
In a fancy bistro, where the yuppies pause, chewing
Pausing, quick glances. They dip their fingers in dust
And dot their cheeks, noses, foreheads, chins,
A ceremonial mask for outness
We joke at the white powder. We cut it,
pretending to snort with Imaginary straws
while plugging a finger to one nostril
We play out the joke, I look to my right, we sit
On a rustic oak table, three chairs pulled, a normal night out with friends
I wake up, and these are my dreams.
I walk around my apartment.
I breathe with the window sigh.
How do the shadowy patterns
of leaves sneak into this lonely world
The trees constantly waving goodbye
from the window of every room I’ve been sad in.
How can this light be real, how can I be on this bed, if I were willing
Could I count the number of blinds. If I look around is any of it here,
as though the quantities of each object cannot possibly be
Accounted for, a single, formless mesh. One blind repeated
I count one blind for two hours, tiny shades on the surface of time
Reborn upon waking, we somehow know
to continue the patterns of whoever
we were the day before
I dream that I walk on the city streets, I
See an album of shadows augment on the side-
walk, and ever since, I’ve come to assume that I am
the shadow, and not the sun.