Spectres

in YOUR dreams
Michael is hiding
behind rhododendron
bushes
it is 6am
on a Sunday morning
and the fog
feels
like wet wrappings

 there is static
on your mind
AS you astral gaze
down the hill toward the Bay

you stutter
at the moment it takes
to vocalize thoughts
delayed by the blinking
spacetime
     interruption

a black hole's last insertion

Quick   Violent

a velvet spark to connect
frying synapses

and the laughter of an Arcata
                                                 sunrise