The clouds play shadow-puppets
onto the baywaters. A goose turns into a lion,
that sort of thing. It’s quite dramatic,
which is nice on a boring Tuesday.
[I had this line in the elevator
but now it’s gone.]
Kit Robinson’s fragments
stitched during sleep
are not my fragments. In what we might call last night,
I dreamt of sexual encounters in an amusement park
and in the rocky shallows of an ocean beach.
There were spectators. Former supervisors
and colleagues, quite random. But the encounterees
were anonymous.
Pesto slathered over a pale chicken breast.
Always good for the blood. But
leaving no time to think.
