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October 15th

Today, I dream that patches
of rolling,
enameled,
birdless,
ineffectual thought
have driven several
poorly conceived
landscape paintings
into a rocky cliff
at ninety miles an hour.

Spiders cackle
from beyond a red western sky
as the grocer
dons a suit
made of grain.
I begin shaking
my disapproving head
when suddenly, out of nowhere,
the hammer falls from my hand
to the river below me,
one
thousand feet.