Chemical-coated plastic smiles stalk me from strips of film that spill out of little paper pockets and drawers and boxes,
luminous white lips that glow eerily even through closed eyes.
The blue, licorice-scented hyssop is in full bloom
but I sleep until afternoon, and rise to walk through the dark hallway and bump into a cold wall covered in photographs.
When I dream, I see images of feathered hope perched
on a black bag full of trash and leaking barbecue sauce, he sings
the sweetest song, but I'm wearing earplugs.