Fictitious Capital

Driving across roads:

what are we; meandering

on this rock, alone.

Paper rain skips from paper clouds

in paper skies, but the paper flowers

never wilt and always smell like paper.

Sinking into our own private deaths

on Berber carpet - you’re sleeping in

a parking lot that’s still asleep.

Turning back time

after time has passed is a crumbling oak

tree across the street.

Crescent-moon soliloquy:

the book on the nightstand;

the stare from the stairs.

Seven yellows, six greens;

the rest is whatever will come

of your midnights

and no one will ever know who you are
when the sky ruptures.