She told me she'd given up sleep,
as if a habit gone on too long,
that she can dream at night
without having to close her eyes.
She pictured me standing on one leg,
with the phone, held tight against my chest,
like a hot water bottle I forgot I had.
And then from my limbs, she said,
morph these big, red balloons
that lift me too high to move
without it seeming meaningless, minor.
So I hover just below the sky,
dangle my inflated legs just above
the desert of her back garden.
I'm prickly; I am sore, she roared.
I get so raw in the afternoon.
I'm full of air, I harked back.
And there's no real edges, no squares,
except the ones around your eyes
and they just reflect the light so
I can't dance in the middle.
Now breathing is wasting energy, she mimed
let alone speaking, crying.
Well, that's fine, I replied,
trying to wet my lips in the breeze
that comes from a mid June in denial,
but burst at the next curb,
and pick the needles from my side.
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