The thought insists upon itself. The dead
body of it, what you have put together:
The hillside won’t make sense.
You run through the trees, but the trees
Didn’t the sky come down on you like.
Didn’t you think you saw.
The irrational forest,
your stupid mouth,
a breath stillborn.
Ink stain. The cold, cold water.
The heart’s slow beat.
There is no imagining anymore. You awake
and everything is flatter. You go outside
and there is nothing to see.