I can close my eyes pretty well.
Bring lash to lash
and revel in the darkness
of my vastly empty lids.
I can close my eyes
and mist turns into enveloping sun
and my jeans turn into a summer dress
and my legs are perfectly tanned
and my hair is bleached brighter.
I can close my eyes,
and see through anything,
beyond the six industrial doors
of this eight-story purgatory,
beyond the stale gray city,
beyond now.
I can close my eyes,
and bodies turn hard with muscle
and clothes grow saggy with slack,
and clothes lay crumpled on the floor.
I can close my eyes,
and trap wet drops of hope
into vacuums of ducts
between my magnificent lids,
void of feelings, void of remains.
I can close my eyes,
and we are Andrew Bird's Palindromes,
not Alex Turner's failures.
I can close my eyes,
and feel the pull of an eager dog leash
upon my inattentive arm.
I can close my eyes,
and it's no longer an achey echoing platform,
the train's pulling in to Coney Island
and laughter resonates among
UV warnings and fake concussion stories.
I can close my eyes,
and it is real.
I can close my eyes,
and reality is mine.