Kaleidoscopy
If the astronauts put a mirror over Kentucky,
we could wave to the president
from Kansas. The galaxies move, not
because there’s wind in space,
but because the aliens are bigger
than we drew them. Maybe
they define water differently.
Now I’m imagining slicing a circle
from the kaleidoscope walls, then twisting
a figure eight and tricking my brain
into showing me what my eyes saw first.
After we fell asleep the television hosts
started watching us, since the world must
be observed at all points, and we dreamed
that the world dreamed with us. The wars
faded during breakfast. I’m inventing a river
that moves in circles, rolling under itself instead
of forwards. We’re calling it the water wheel.
He insisted that the bottle was only shaking
because it couldn’t hold its liquor. If the sound
is looped, then there must be something
on either side of the skip. To walk home
with clean hands is a crime
in the world she scented with paint.
They dyed the cast blue before the show
and called it a game of chance. If our eyes
are closed, then all of this
that we dream should happen
upside down. Maybe we have eyes
that look inside, too.
I don’t remember the rest.