Time out
chairs in corners
of a widening room
beckon her to retrieve those lost
daydreams.
daydream
Into the Lens
A waking smirk paints her face
young. Her daydreams
have become pages
from old journals ripped
out, restacked, sewn
back together
in an order she believes
would have sustained
such animation. Plagiarizing is
alright as long as she
doesn’t plagiarize
herself. But it’s too much
work to steal from others. That look
is for no one—now it belongs
to these worn-down back streets.
Aroma Therapy
“There’s the present moment fraught with tangled woods.”
—Jack Kerouac, from Big Sur
The doctor who’s not really
a doctor
yet asks her to find her
safe place with eyes closed, to lie
on her back, see
nothing but that brown orange
noise of inner eye
lids till it comes
into focus—the edge
of a field blurred into a pine forest so ripe
with needle
bed mint sweetness.
All kisses before it got so complicated
and the sun peeking through just
to wave hello
and see you later when you get up
from your daydream—
I mean hers.
It was her death to be
so awake before all of you without
a cleared path
to escape along. It is about
feet first, it turns out.