Meanwhile, in a Galaxy

You can’t sleep, there are little apples
                                                           in your eyes

Go to the orchard

Constantly lit
                              in the middle

Of the city
                      the city

Next to the lake
                           that will swallow

The city whole

We’ll sit on a rotting bench

A burning field
                         covering our legs

No, it’s a blanket

Textures are rough
                                 in the psych unit

                                                                            ~

You need raspberries

Pistachio ice cream

And startled animal drawings

You need boxes to put
                                         things in

And boxes to take
                              things from 

Hey you, what’s wrong

With having feathers

Let’s talk about what’s wrong

With our categories

Hurry up, paint an androgynous bird

On my stomach

What’s wrong

With being a bird
                                metaphysician

                                                                             ~

When the sun has almost set

We rush outside
                              and head toward the edge

Of the property

We want to see
                       the light bounce

Sitting on a rotting bench

Watching the city sky grow dark

We have to sing now

Because each tooth
                                 is a sparkling gallery

On whose walls

Are projected scenes

From old musicals

                                                                           ~

Daylight glinting off dimes in the grass

Daylight, and our teeth don’t feel
                                                           different yet

Daylight on top of the city, on top
                                                          of the lake

Daylight through a sieve of fingers

Mimics the skyscrapers


                                                                            ~


Dusk, and dusk
                             of dusk

I’ll go to the Ministry of Health

Dressed in a gown
                                  of peripheries

You’ll go as the violet-green swallow

A summer resident
                                 in the salt marsh

I’ll even (yes) I’ll
                  build you wings