The sand in its throat
resists the fall, clinging
as the floor slips.
The sand in its throat
resists the fall, clinging
as the floor slips.
I hear a door,
a slammed gate, the car starting
and sound drive away.
Still under covers
hearing rain, wondering how
heavy air will be.
With a glasses case
as big as this room—still
I might lose them.
Restless drumming—
rain from roofs and gutters
soaking sleep.
Listening for rain—
the wet outside the hiss
and pop of vinyl.
Chasing golden herds
over black plains, hoping
never to catch up.
The spastic wheels
made our grocery cart sing
like a cage of birds.
All the sounds of
construction and destruction
about the same.
Dreaming of flames
already in this desk—arms
reaching for the page.