Away from the stove we put on last winter and my supine eyes frothing over with worm light. Cue: never turn around believing it’s a dream and it’ll change as soon as we see our footsteps sinking in the tide.
We can/never stop ourselves from sinking in the sand, letting the glass get under our nails and burning to let the sun in. Cue: we stand a little too close to traffic while it pinches us with its neon trails, headlights, it’s drooling need to move forward/we nostalgia.
We dusting windmills, we phone cords plugging dirt. Cue: we blow our nose and cough. We can’t shutter the shadow process.
We’re always closing off in/the cold, blowing smoke on the window pane and drawing names like they can see [again]; the fright, the lawn, the freight, the dawn.