parapraxis

i dreamt of teeth
in control
of throat

we were stoic in the day
melodramatic by night

and with the kind of eyes
that might gaze
from the apex of pyramids

the sky forever
stifling our views

the kind of eyes
that might fall

to the floor
as something
sugar-coated-sour passes

but we are slaves
to nothing

skin charred and blackened
from the light world

retreat to the womb
black and aphotic

and i'll hold you up to the sun
like a lit matchstick





realizing