Dead to the air,
an hour from now.
That amber would turn
on fossil was obvious
thought I from an income
concussion across proper channels.
Looking through random eyelets, I found
a law to the worsening dream,
a matter of timing
scattered tightly into vast blanks
that became seams.
That wakefulness would bound
leaving us to act the restless,
dusting out of earshot for the buried deed—
that a surface, what
we cut up, sprouts half the time
this is taking
Paul Ebenkamp lives and works in Berkeley CA.