the walls are closing in, we agreed.
hills like white trumpet calls
the sand storms dune we hope sun-soaked beneath bare feet;
I dream of a collaborative tropical escape: run busted hand
up mended leg;
fuck it all away.
it’s a million o’clock in late February and the Sirens sound off
across the polar vortex.
i awake to an announcement coming over the intercom:
“no skin. i repeat, no skin.”