sometimes in the many nighttimes I dream of ways
to dream a better dream of myself and The Future
but little ants crawl all over me and inside
of my nostrils and everything sounds
like the I Love Lucy theme song without words
slowed down to half speed and warbling like
some newsprung bird in its awkward spring
sometimes in the many nighttimes I dream the fan
isn’t mocking me after all as it whirs and
the eggs in the fridge aren’t worried I’ve forgotten about them
—how could I forget such a small thing?
two lonely eggs in their little carton of darkness until
the sun turns on whenever my dream self and my real self
list around the kitchen in our cotton briefs
he says I should dream harder
but there is nothing harder than dreaming