1

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.

 

2

 

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