floor.
children run in little packs across the floor above my hotel ceiling.
unspecific punctuation muscles its way into my thought processes.
fresh weather makes the desert seem a midwestern transplant
to the matte finish of grassless tan.
the more the evening starves itself of sun,
the louder are the points of information
that from some dark distance
form a line of code
I cannot translate now.
baseline data pave comfort on the unsuspecting psyche.
from there, each cell's naive.
night, meanwhile, offers treasured space.
dream's own vocabulary plush with need
and a response to vast misunderstanding.
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