8:17AM by Cory teese

write down your dreams

we’ll sort them out

the kettle hums

the gravel is thick

 stand over there— — —  

don’t go where it sinks

 the pines in the wind,

 these are scenes of time

 the kettle sings

they hold space

 clouds creep to our eyes.

 the sound of the fall

a black Labrador collides with my cheek

    (or did i kiss his snout?)

 our limbs linger in the bed

the subject of an exorcism;

the kettle screams.