poem: midnight in the dream city

she stood lazily in the shower, watching the drain grow

fat with the leftover dreams

that come off her like dead skin. she and her friends will go out

tomorrow, and make castles out of shotglasses

and then knock them over.


when she was younger she walked through fields in a red raincoat

amazed at the way things brushed against

her bare legs. wet grass is something else, really. it feels like

feathers; do you remember?


if she turns the shower off, she will be cold. there is no one to yell at

to bring her a towel. even rudeness can make strangers out of

friends, but she is

starting with nothing; so why does it matter?

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