opening the lid on dreams,
anti-light pours in.
We shake ourselves out
as if dragged down a steep flight of stairs,
as if undoing the work of blue/black waves.
We shake ourselves again
into our legs, into our eyes.
In sleep, light is negative. The blinds
bleed a blue/black/green friendly
ooze. Your arms glow, even
if you’re missing some fingers.
It’ll be made of moving parts:
tops and floaters and stars
into and around your hand,
a phantom pillow attached to your face.
But slowly, you move, slowly so you can’t
remember yourself, or
as if your real body can’t let you
reach the door, can’t let you
off the ground, can’t let you see
if the sirens are for your friend.