last night's dream corrected
oh bathsheba two words of house.
her dusty feet sprinkle golden surgical openings.
greta garbo is not my sister.
a door opens and i enter like someone who--he
sits in a chair, reading a book, unaware of my theme music, turning crispy pages back and forth, compromising passages.
greta plays with her toy boats. she uses the rug as the ocean. her sunlight pasted above a map of the medulla oblongata.
"i have to take off my dress or the rain will stop", she says.
"yes, that is true", i say.
i follow her onto the grass, where i paint the lingo.
it is me.
"beautiful" i hear. "beautiful".
"how did you do that?". "we didn't know you could".
it is unfinished.
greta, my sanguine hypothesis, your flag is an opiate dress the marching band salutes. it is a painting of you and your country (by this lake) the room is brighter and better for reading the lattice pitch of children covered by folds of
it is a testament to the conceivable.
i can't paint.