A poem on sleep,
the scattered freight of perception,
fragments of whispers,
naked paint-by-numbers;
we wallow into tomorrow omniously,
cities fly past our windows
(like dreams,
the flattering gypsies).
Some words have lost my mind: dreamos, that
live under
cold windows;
buzzwuzzers from beneath
heavy stones;
the dead river branches with tiny
wrists I used to love to kiss.
Cities breathe, cough & spit,
the summer smog opens the streets’ nostrils,
the buildings disband, all
the world’s buildings have lost the cities.
All the world’s words have lost my mind.
The poem on sleep awaits their return;
the dreams await the return
of the dead freight of perception.