Sleep folded up the day, hung dreams on the wall.
Voices were wind.
The ghosts composed letters to those who couldn’t remember them.
The old woman held onto the sides of houses.
There was an archway to what happened without you.
Boxes of sea light.
Fireflies swimming.
The montage, a series of floating photographs.
The sculpture wanted you to understand.
There was no quick appointment for an emotional diagnosis.
There were new tents for those out of paychecks hidden by the hillside.
I could no longer translate suffering.
Sleep was a gift to be reopened in the desert.
One foot reentered consciousness without a promise.
I was unable to become something remarkable, even small.
Ancient texts explicated the demise.
Inside the house, one misses sky.
I slept in the rain for eleven nights without a terrace.
I lost the fog while surfing waterfalls and sinkholes, which became confusing.
Someone said we were part of an ongoing symphony.
Even when taking the garbage out.
That our loss of composure made decisions hurt.
I stepped up to the plate, but no one was playing.
I drove around the corner a hundred times to find you.