I try to resurrect the dead through
gesture. I try to disconnect the endless loop.
I think about what she said
and try to do as she said: keep a space.
Maybe that’s what this is:
a 3-hour donut, an all-expense paid trip
to Awake Island. I am not laying my head
under a storm of bullets. My limbs are not held taut
in traction. I am lying awake beside my love
but his breathing is labored by asthma.
He should see someone for it. Is that my son I hear
killing pixels and brain cells at this hour?
Is the moonlight entering our room
at a different angle now that the tree is gone?