Dreaming with my eyes open, it’s like I can taste the rain that hasn’t fallen yet. I want to tear open the sky and let it cry down the back of my neck like the feeling of your fingers in the dark. Eyes, burning coal look, you tilt your chin down and try to look at me seriously, but too late again. I’m onto you, I can make it not matter again because I understand that angle, the harsh stretch behind it. Wickerwork emotion, look where the strands go and thread them in. Weave in appropriate places, feel down and down and into the weight of feet, of legs moving. Sing darling, swing, you have the earth to move. My secrets are all out in the open, that’s how they’re hiding. There’s truth and then there’s truth. Will and sun rises, they’re unrelated but I want to go to Egypt, pretend for a moment that there was once a man who took the weather into his hand. Climb ancient rocks with someone and explain the old stories of all the stars I’ve never seen growing up under these constellations. Varied paths, tales longer than that of hyena laughter. Tales longer than our fur finder history, building our cities day by day into a place where people can begin to try and pretend to live. How shiny, how glittering, this awful lack of architecture. I want to turn off the lights and tuck this place in. Wake up somewhere, new horizon, dawn blush. I caught her naked, legs wide open. Everyone sleeps in my bed, even the sun. I have a number, I’m in line. Shame drifting driftwood start and spackle my plastered face onto the wanted poster. This doesn’t make me holy, but it makes you a deity. You’re the only one allowed to hit me.
Snare drum quiet snap, occasionally it makes me think of trains, of jumping tracks on the prairies. Sometimes I question how perfectly I recall being under three feet high. The sticks of wood were so far apart, the bells I imagined on my fingers with gold and in my head I could hear them ring for miles. Shimmer cold over the rolling gold as if it were out of a movie. I know exactly what filter I would put on her smile, that little child, and what colour her plastic boots and summer dress. But it was fall, wasn’t it? It was wheat.
If I turn on the radio I want the perfect song to be playing.
So I won’t.