whether it is we sleep, dream, and collide with desire with sickening, wet thuds,
or whether, in shorter moments, less precise, less pressing, less puerile,
we see those things which seem where they should be.
if, by some chance, you, or one of your friend’s hands,
came to divine those somnambulist’s pleasures,
please remember to drop some postcards about it-
as you walk away-
yet i will wander
like bullets with no powder
into, and out of, languid, grabbing fields
and perhaps my greatest hope,
as i am torn down by gripping shrubbery,
is that you understood what i meant when i just couldn’t do it.