A man with a counterfeit limp rolls a suitcase over abandoned railroad tracks. Maybe it's fogged in, maybe it's contagious. The therapeutic hypnotist looks in my eyes and discovers political yard signs, the drifting wreckage of thought clouds, and you in a dress waiting for me, drenched in the coldness of passing headlights. I'd invert, if I could, light and shadow, so sailors soil their dress whites, so the maximum allowable daily dose is zero, so the worker bees unite against the system of the hive, so that when it's a little past midnight, an hour we once knew well, the sun is coming up and fall still a long way away.

 

 

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