Lick the lights. Everyone
says that here. Sometimes
they’ll call a spade a shovel,
hollowing half a hole,
which is all I have to sleep inside.
There’s one
arboretum running
underground from near here
to Verisimilitude City.
I measure the macrocosm
with miles of mint string. Flossing
the dunning
skins from the incisors of the air.
The apples in our demi-dreams
drag themselves from the dirt
and into the indigo atmosphere.
Prime Mover, sleep. In the shade
ensnared.
