Schuyler. Skyler. Sky. Lark.

Open-windowed dreaming stands
waiting near a black bag, white
polka dots. The cicadas missed me
this summer, as did the stars.
The floor is wet and so is my
collar and so are the corners
of my eyes, but only a little. At
some point, I guess my lungs
gave out. It's maybe been days
or even weeks. They've only now
started to inflate, and my
skin is already turning a soft
strawberry.

Nacho, my yogi guide, my once
vain champion, let me listen
as I breathe at stilted and
deepened speed.