chapter four

anything to stay under

under the surface

under the weather

anything to escape

the missile heat-seeking

your heart

what there is of it

is an orchestra in the desert

grains rubbing

in the wind

trillions of 'em

suspicious white noise rising

till you wake

look at the skull beside you

on the pillow

the pillow of sand

the brain on the pillow

the flaps of face flapping

slow as kelp

you have every reason

to be sceptical

but don't give in yet

this thing that recently

guzzled novels, sang

and deliberated

over licorice

is snoring, not

drowning

not dreaming