it is hard to tell where my hands are
the cloud coverage hides shadow.
i have accidental dreams of fish, murder
and native americans. photography bores me,
literature bores me, vanished kidnapping victims bore me.
i have been to the same parlors you frequent, i know
that while i was dreaming you were gathering mushrooms
to poison my soup. you are getting close to me
so that murder can ensue.
the air does not look like you at all.
i have to stop looking at the trees though, they are expressive like
your face. you do not need to raise your eyebrows
so much. i get it. i get it.
things i know, i repeat
the hot air balloon: neutral, wiped of memories does not remind