There’s something lying flat
in the road over there. Could be
you dream mints and cables, squalls
like pyrite tell you
I am some king. I am sofa
king. You’re a gentle blow-up

generally, ordering skulls in
dark corners of the house to
somnabulate, huddled
gingerly snapping up your book.
The pages to the touch are water-
honed scales. Just lie back on

the couch, Rosencrantz; your pockets
rasp with the noise of sullen rocks.