settling in

demarcations abound. hound dogs fiddle

with them and sleep. then sleep. hoops of wire

thicker than floss, thinner than a thumb.

red hot. floating. there should be something

jumping, but instead there’s only rolling.

a filling. so then they appear dotted. like

a giant washroom. wirebrushes scrubbing

the clouds. some kind of tumbling. the hound

dogs still sleeping, but with one eye open.

maybe dreaming of rabbits. ones here

and there with nothing to hold them

back from the cabbages. reflexively. paws.

a jet bisects the sky with white plumage.

scrubbed away slowly. faintly now. there

is strength still in my arm. gravity may

learn to love me again soon. the hoop

right there burning in front of the brain.