Wednesday, July 28, 2010


the machine spits out water
i wonder where it comes from
the same place the sun comes from, i decide
the light coiled in a ray
like a terrible snake
that finds me through the crack
in my bed frame

it must be eight, or nine, even
i have errands but
sink into the mattress
instead, on wednesday morning

i open a bottle over my palm
and dip my nose in water
a half-assed remedy
for an imagined disease
who will i love tomorrow?

a question breeding the sort of
discomfort that lingers
in the pillowcases
that i remove
in the middle of the night

i find them in the morning--
the residue of unfinished dreams
crowding my floor