On an iron shelf I keep myself
inside an ashen box.
Feeding circuits alert themselves
in far away ceilings.
Waves tick on and off
awash in rubble cities.
Friends and family are
picked away like lint.
The open floor calls to my hidden flight.
Courts stampeded by rubber people
glow prices to the sightless exits.
In this, our second dream, you
and I are trying on shoes
for broken bones, I am buying
you a haircut, you are nailing me
to a car.
We are watching lightning bugs
trace our surface with interruptions.
The woods are rocking our pulse.
Flakes and bark shards
and leaves came down
without partaking in error.
The warp and seepage of dirty births
strolling with your follicles like a fur coat
high on the darkened concrete
beaming a plan to my eyes.