Dreams have not yet left,
the skin of eyes in solace.
Only omnivorous vermin
are eating the waiting time,
ready to French kiss minutes themselves and,
by far,
engaged; in a hurry, impatient to marry the seconds;
ready to do the job after a Proustian search for the lost bits of it.

But what is this yearning?
What if
it’s already the dream of a butterfly,
in which this addiction of ours
has fundamentally been an illusion—
still soaking us to detect
if we are able to purchase nothingness,
hoping for no gravity while falling,
anthropomorphizing inanimate concepts.