Futon Dreams

I watch as the inches hang,
each line falls
an eighth at a time.

The ridges come closer,
white sheets on the hardwood.

Am I floating?
burial mound of cotton.

“You sleep better during a novice moon.”

What we want is height–
to reach an angle of dreams.

My desire is to tear down the wall,
to dissect the frame,
grain by grain.

I desire the noise of decay,
handfuls of insulation.

I am building angles here,
one broken wall at a time.

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