wheeling dreams—
nocturnal sorts—swishing in
a black cup of sky
wheeling dreams—
nocturnal sorts—swishing in
a black cup of sky
how much is
simply smoke—first reality
seared?
on childhood maps, all
encompassing words stretch
border to border
only
calm tones identifying
scenes moving
the needle—as I
nap—circles its drain, lifts,
lands, and starts again
nearly awake—my
sixth grade life science teacher
tells me I’m dreaming
cup to wall
listening to a neighbor’s
sonata
mimic songs
stretching through stringed syllables
no space to inhale
mid-paragraph, my
missed typo surfaces and
dances in plain sight
“Hush” she said,
as if she meant to name
a passing creature