Ran from something only my heart recognized. Woke up like a drum and stumbled to the tap for water. Drank like the dream was drought. On the roof across the way from the kitchen, someone left out a ladder. It reached past the moon to a hidden star, probably. My city smokes a highway of smokes a day. It’s hard to tell anything for sure.

The truth is, every poem I’ve ever written is just like every other, and the sky is different every time I look.