it’s hard to break habituation.
to allow the unfolding of yourself
others, who aren’t like you, are others
themselves hanging on the single thread
between the dream image.
conducting your steps into
the fortune market. something
is sold in detail; the unspeakable,
conscience of neither here nor
there - gravel traps, honey pot
curved as the injunction slapped on
the wall. to dream is not to end.
when torn from the wall
your steps retrace a groove
reach the uncertain flooring
the fall. what you have known
is like a cigarette sucked by his side
the police between the gaps
his cuffs linking you to
the future, unconscious.