and dreaming, I
can almost see
the catastrophe that's
trapped inside of me—
desperate to flee
his prison's ship's
emergency, and so
pounding his palms
against the insides
of my eyelids.
Get help, he insists;
don't get distracted
by dumb hunger;
or at least, get pissed-
off enough
at the state of affairs
to make a wish
to trade places with
your less egregious half.
Then I wake
with a gasp, but it's all
impossible to parse—
pale counterfeits
at best—like butterflies
under glass,
or the flickering
necrotic shadows
trailing-out grotesque
behind the tree limbs
of reality
in the black-
and-white kaleidoscope
of storm clouds and moonlight—
and all I can think is
am I saying this right?
