Sit, sneak a look at what’s left of nothing,
a tree alone, a blur of nimbus and fire above no one,
a diminished frequency of fury.

Sketch my black coat.
Two bucks at the Goodwill, it confides in the dead,
celebrates mother with a seance.

Ah, do you hear that?
The coffeemaker is the Atlantic. It wants to wear hues,
to be a limbless body in someone’s dream,

gestures with white light,
and never sleeps as it studies the moon.
Let’s not talk about that anymore.

It feels like spiders in my ear canal,
yesterday does.
Stay a little longer. But don’t look at me.

Look at yourself in the mirror,
and I will grin back at you—ah, feel that?
That’s what it’s like to wake up as Mark Landis.