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.