Lick the lights. Everyone says that here. Sometimes they'll call a spade a shovel, hollowing half a hole, which is all I have to sleep inside. There's one arboretum running underground from near here to Verisimilitude City. I measure the macrocosm with miles of mint string. Flossing the dunning skins from the incisors of the air. The apples in our demi-dreams drag themselves from the dirt and into the indigo atmosphere. Prime Mover, sleep. In the shade ensnared.
From Radio, Radio by Ben Doyle. Copyright © 2001 by Ben Doyle. Reproduced with permission of Louisiana State University Press. All rights reserved.