it is hard to tell where my hands would be
the cloud coverage hides shadow-me.
i have accidental dreams of fish, murder
and native americans. photography is of no use to me,
literature is of no use to me, vanished kidnapping victims are of no use to me.
i have seen 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.
humans do not look like me at all.
i have to stop talking to 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 balloonist: neutral, bored of memory, does not rewind
