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.