A.

I sit down at my desk and wonder about placeless places, non-specific locations, the Dreamer dreaming me … it is a way to pass the time. If time were passing, could be passed, over or under, this would be one way of doing it. My little dreams are the broken edges of spidery raindrops crawling along a highway windshield. I slide away, an escapee, a word waiting to happen.

Some days these days are everything.

It is all a trap, all wish and bone and many tomorrows replicating themselves in counterfeit economy and surplus. Gone today, here tomorrow.

B.

I am a trickle of saliva on the Great Dreamer’s lips, hot homeless spittle contracting air, the tail-end thread of a wrinkle on the Great Dreamer’s perfect faceless face, a blank slate, a coin minted by eternity.

I am unheard of, uncalled for, and losing sleep, an insomniac pining for scissors and dirty panties.

Her bedroom feels a million miles away. Good thing I have eyes, multiplying, in the back of my memory.

C.

I am rowing

always to never arrive

never to seek—

Neverland another form

and recall of dreaming.

In other words,

better never than late.