Single Vision & Newtons Sleep

　　by Ben Doyle

　　 Lick the lights. Everyone

　　 says that here. Sometimes

　　 they'll call a spade a shovel，

　　 hollowing half a hole，

　　 which is all I have to sleep inside.

　　 There's one

　　 arboretum running

　　 underground from near here

　　 to Verisimilitude City.

　　 I measure the macrocosm

　　 with miles of mint string. Flossing

　　 the dunning

　　 skins from the incisors of the air.

　　 The apples in our demi-dreams

　　 drag themselves from the dirt

　　 and into the indigo atmosphere.

　　 Prime Mover， sleep. In the shade