The interior of the universe
looks something like you,
a reprise of all our comingtogethers,
or someone else’s clavicles of hope-
It is a trick, I mistake you
for a forest fire.

but I am a periscope
of your nuclear holocaust.



I don’t think of you that often,
But my dreams are bombarded with pictures, scenes, ideas of you.
You dance across my mind, twirling in and out of my unconsciousness,
Weaving your name against the thick branches of my brain,
I cannot follow the speed.
But I’ll wake up
Sometime around six
When the world is still asleep, huddled inside images behind their eyes
and the sun begins its journey to where you are.
And I think that we somehow are connected
By the simple idea
That you are awake, as am I.