I dream of things …
high up in trees and
in the pit of Georgia's peaches.
I dream of noise.
golden hair woven into strings
and
tall buildings with rhythm.
Of fevers that will create logic
and
drums made from human feet.
I dream of water without a container
and
no maximum for the
Human Voice.
Of rocks on fire and
tides up to my ears.
I dream of Mary's shack
and
the gaping mouths of alligators.
Of unframed windows and
liquid bodies that flow and seep.
I dream of black garbage bags
and
white trash and how they might
mesh together.
Of basement floors
and
tree-house splinters and how
human shoulders are exactly
like
Horses' withers.
I dream of topless halves and
empty shelves and how
Sunday is just as busy as …
every other day