I turned over in a bright
pink bed
the world did not
turn over anywhere

I robbed my sleep
the world did not sleep
or rob
but from itself
as if asleep

I moved a log
saw salamanders
I moved
the world did not move
I saw
little orange adorables moving
toward an awful hand
I hesitated to claim it as my own
the little orange bodies claimed
nothing
I followed
my hand remained aboveground
the rest joined
soft orange skin clamoring over
all our meek skeletons