Morning ritual, tenacious breath from the diaphragm

feverish dew and the hollow stare of everything

in dark blue filtered air,

like existence filmed over a green screen.


The newspaper boy leaves theories at my door;

holes and tunnels as though slipping from space,

I bet dreams that smell of sweat are nightmares

and what we see as real leaves paw prints


until it dissolves and takes new form.




You could feel it

For the last time

Every time,

And still let it crawl –

The limbs like vines

Wretched, ragged

Leave you bracketed.

The polaroid doesn't see me