Are we writing the novels
we dreamed?
Where we bury our bottles
in the sand
and the stars are cracking
everything open
except the stars are not
what you think they should be
more the fade-out of the bulb
than the game show host
at the top of the hill
looking down on a city
that refuses to exist. Marvel
at the green, the trees, the water.
The clouds whispering
through the windows.
The flat expanse of the sky
criss-crossed with episodes
we can’t bring ourselves
to repeat. The imaged lines
a gauzy blur.