The stars got it wrong.
In all these dreams,
I am in planes, on the wide decks
of boats, or sulking in the
passenger seat of a Buick.
I am getting away.
The radio blares, but I can’t
seem to make out any lyrics.
There were red shoes.
There were unsigned cards.
There were so many seeds
that refused to take root.
I wake up and find pain
in all of my joints, as if
my hands were over my head
for hours, exclaiming something
I do not remember.
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