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
And still let it crawl –
The limbs like vines
Leave you bracketed.