Wake up, stretch. Check the curtained windows for sunlight or that dreaded grey frame that forces the covers to come back up and the alarm clock to be set to ‘Snooze’.

Anastomose my veins to / yours so we may / share // a dream pooled between us

And us, like a giant eye looking back, plotting

if we stare into the dark long enough, we see ourselves at some end or beginning –

So I went to see the wrinkled and rumpled poet, who insisted on reading from memory, stumbling through his sheaf of poems.

Perhaps archaeologists will unearth our bodies and miss our minds.

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