Between dreams I walk,
down the long, wrinkled corridor,
shadows painted into the faces on its walls.
Like trophy heads in a hunter’s jungle bungalow
lamps jut out,
all staring glass.
The window is open, isn’t it?
I’m standing somewhere,
somewhere near the door.
But the window is open.
Can the door be open?
Something has to be closed.
My eyes are sore, having been pulled from sleep.
My hair is still asleep and my pajamas murmur sleepily.
My skin is dreaming about being near.
My breath my breath. I can’t wake it.
There is a silence-shaped ring in my ear.
I put my finger to my ear, my loud loud finger.
fingers up northern faces
of the mildly gated
lights lost in
A mortgage locked by wet stamps
life insurance keyed to contrition
she rides a horse
wakes with car keys in her hand