“There is a dream outside.
I am dark and imagined and
I can’t wake up….”
I have forgotten how I write.
My voice is with the calendar,
in the cemetery,
dusting off a bottle. The sun has moved
in on this town,
drying up oranges,
turning water to dust.
Today, I am a reflection.
A left over.
The wind is locked.
My phone is dead.
People have stopped watching.
I am underground,
away from cancer and traffic.
“…and the dream is inside, too.”
Light is nothing, not even artificial.
The birds are an alarm;
God’s warning.
If someone could crush my hand with
a hammer, I could stop all this.
The world is stretching.
I want my voice back.
