Cold shower and entrust
your dreams and aspirations
to a thin, plastic grocery bag:
Evaporate paired chain-link shackles,
black, cast iron; shackled
round ankle, round wrist.
Dredge dreadful anchors up, umop
from nether past abyss.
Drop unto rocks below.
Gaze at myriad mural of stars,
tunnel vision and form fog amidst
an imagination let go, you
must enter a trance verging on mystical.
Take this life, this world, what curling lock
of hair you have upon your head
between your index and thumb.
Let its aura weave dreams
of speaking sums.
Claim your coffee shop “parapet.”