i
know dreams are your
house parties.
i am
like a teenager stealing
mom’s vodka, getting
wasted for the first time.
you walk without striding, you
leap from dream to dream
and shadow to shadow.
i follow, but i haven’t quite
learned to walk without legs,
how to live in the abstraction.
“try to keep up,” you say
as you drag me into your
old kitchen.
everything
is how i remember. captain crunch
on the counter.
you open the fridge
and grab a cold piece of pizza.
your dog
leaps up on my leg and i scratch him
between the ears.
your dog is dead too.
“let’s make a deal,” you say,
turning to me. “i’ll teach you
how to walk through a dream,
if you let me remember what it is
like to walk barefoot in the sand.
i will teach you how to breath
without breath if you let me take
a deep draw of air.”
i’m about to answer, i’m
about to say
i will, i’d do
anything to trade places,
to have you here
sipping coffee,
and i wake up
to a siren wailing
outside
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