Dandelion Wine Was Only Good at a Certain Time
I walk through the cellar, dark heart-core.
Catacomb of cobwebs—I can't see them
but duck past them. I know where each one is.
Rusty wires, dead wires, broken breakers.
Here trysts were imagined between the wash
and dry, voyages completed across a ripped map.
Furnace-sighs and fuse-box ticks: that
Don't Touch one learns young and late and
all points between. Blink once. Think twice.
The Tiny Tears doll wrapped and hidden,
rewrapped, and put by. Wasn't she once
tipped on her head and made to cry?
Up in the green world, what tender frond
might I clip from the stalk and eat? A life
gets planned down here I know not how.
I Lie Down in My Dream
It’s built: another
amid the unwalled
To get from one
to the other, the goods-toting traders
take the tunnel that
is me. Into a foot,
out my mouth. Home
by the same route.
The footfalls, the brightly
bobbing torches—everyone quiet
right here, this sharp detour
around the ear-shattering,