Dream Sequence 37: Intermittent Anesthesia

I will not mention appendectomy.

That isn't your body split open on the kitchen table.

If you open the patio door and listen – those aren't bullfrogs.

I am not the cluster of nerves you call the moon.

I cannot store you in the closet as an unopened box of hardwood.

I cannot describe regeneration or reorder atoms.

My heart is buzzing – no, that's the doctor.

Apparently, I shouldn't mention burst either.

Even in this day and age, there's a distance called too far.

I draw a line the length of your driveway plus the spiral staircase.

If I press hard enough, the marker dries up just below your waist.