You should float in the sea to heal your open wounds.
Avoid the stretcher with the body that can’t surf air.
Salt gives the mouth more room.
The shrinking door or floor.
It’s hard to say.
When fire takes down the second floor, and the cathedral ceilings disembark—
you know you can’t go home anymore.
Oleaginous night turning clocks and black feather swans.
The moon might vent under the cloud river, but no one reads this story.
Life-size Russian dolls could interlock, then unlock a parade of wild particulars.
If human were a choice, fewer might graze the calendar, stare at our phones.
You’re multitasking on crack again—frenetically foraging false data.
Maybe lucid dreaming isn’t such a good idea.
Spells spill in Arabic at 2 AM.