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.