For months, even years I forget
to eat in my dreams. Not a hunger
strike but absorption in some ancient
puddle or scrape
from an old accident.
I shed family like outerwear/ jobs
I incompletely move towards completion.
No one is calling my name.
Phones stack up.
Once carried up stairs by the gust of revolution
I rode a horse into the palace.
Someone was trying to speak in a locked room.
Thoughts spill from test tubes.
Goodnight, fair ladies. Don’t forget
to check your flies at the door.