Postcard to David Byrne

A pair of legs protruding
from beneath a collapsed house

kicking a little, choreographing
something into the air

poem without awakening

when the sea swallows us / whole—which will be / soon—i will learn to / swallow the whole sea.


My mother’s fuzzy silhouette rises, / Tells me to go back to sleep.


You’ll find me oxidized and open wide, yet rust resistant