Today we’re heavier than these buildings
holding us hostage.
We’re little inside as we sink together
furiously searching for instructions
for when you accidentally drive off a bridge,
which are wildly different than the ones for when you drive off on purpose.

In our dream there is no math
and I can’t tell which dogs are friendly.
There’s one night and one-half day
that we keep redoing with few changes,
marveling we haven’t run out
of the same foods we haven’t eaten
and that yesterday, which is also today
and probably tomorrow, we won’t need
to move to seem busy. 

My daughter dreams the same things
each night except when she doesn’t.
She reminds me this is all imaginary
so long as she's in charge of the dinosaur,
but I can’t tell time when dreams are more normal
than day. When we don’t know when we’re asleep
because the monster keeps not turning into a penguin,
and no-one keeps not waking us up.

It’s all too too. I try looking busy.
I needed a hobby with very few materials
and tried cultivating faith in a vacuum.
It’s surprising what can grow
with almost no light, with sighs
to pass for oxygen.

My knowing this will be heartwarming
to those observing me in future centuries,
those with no need for hands,
for dough or applause. They’ll be amazed
we acted as our own gardeners
while continuing to sink. Amazed
we tended to things that died half-way
but kept growing. That we pretended
when it was time to sleep, despite the light
outside. Despite the fallen sky.