The smell of a dream still on your teeth.

The paranoia of seeing yourself in a mirror.

Clutching blond hair in your hand.

The stopping and starting of little cars sweeping by your

cowboy hat at the bus stop. The one car that didn't move.

Pieces of glass being avoided through time.

The sunken field of blue flowers

in back of the house.

The futile science of love,

calculated by a world in doubt, in anxiety, in weight-loss.

The unending story of movie manuscripts and broken hearts and TV.

These figures, all of them and all,

scattered throughout our lives like trash

and burning the sacred retina

smoothly, over the stretched progression of the sublime.