words:

sunny day, she lies awake as the rays of sun ignite her face
400 dreams about a place, a thousand graves, a vacuum space

unmatching socks on a feetless child
the wheelchair squeaks, her mother sighs
a dog runs loose between the pines
but the wind still carries your scent of lime

seven sisters got out of bed, seven caps, one for each head
a daily procession, a cyclic mirage, the youngest the first, the oldest the last

a pair of gloves in a wooden box
a scream arises as a gun goes off
the microwave dings but there’s nothing inside
but the wind still cries your name every night

there’s water on Mars, or that’s what they say, it might’ve gotten there on a rainy day
400 suns, all of them in shades, are stalking you from outer space

Saturn’s rings got replaced by an ad
in which an elder woman wears a funny hat
the galaxy’s ritziest amusement park
but the popcorn the sell reminds me of your eyes

But The Popcorn They Sell Reminds Me Of Your Eyes

Daniel Ruiz