Single Vision & Newton's Sleep

Lick the lights. Everyone
says that here. Sometimes
they'll call a spade a shovel,
hollowing half a hole,
which is all I have to sleep inside.


There's one


arboretum 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 indigo atmosphere.
Prime Mover, sleep. In the shade


ensnared.

by Ben Doyle

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