A photograph
of a city's streets lit up so bright
that it subdues
all one would associate with night.
A Berlitz course,
it chatters breathlessly with you.
You're splayed on the floor
among maps marked off with shaking hands.
But I can't plan that far in advance.
No one will acknowledge that.
Amber vials,
they flank each windowsill and shelf.
The contents expire
and are replaced with something else.
Results return,
and days, once undefined, contract.
So close the guides.
Let's just try and keep this candle lit.
'Cause I can't plan that far in advance.
No one will acknowledge that.
I'm constantly held back
by the impression that nothing is mine,
but overlapping dreams
I generate to pass the time
between catastrophes.
I can't plan that far in advance.
No one will acknowledge that.