Lick the lights. Everyone

    says that here. Sometimes

    they'll call a spade a shovel¹，

    hollowing half a hole，

    which is all I have to sleep inside.

    There's one

    arboretum² running

    underground from near here

    to Verisimilitude City.

    I measure the macrocosm

    with miles of mint string. Flossing

    the dunning

    skins from the incisors of the air.

    The apples in our demi-dreams

    drag themselves from the dirt

    and into the indigo³ atmosphere.

    Prime Mover， sleep. In the shade