Sound said to dictate so I dictate. Sound said there are machines here that want us
to be kind and gone. The phone it rang itself defunct in my dream where a man was

said to hurt me. Outside the highway steams, exhaust wind scarves itself in my blood
like pills since expired. Outside the engines idle not unkind—there is work to be done,

there is a man whose role it is to whisper to my eyelids their decay and I love him.
There is talk of a crashing system. What system. Search engines give you the results

you do and do not need. Pick what is left of the end of days and you will find there is
plenty still to cry about. There are machines here that want us to be kind and gone.

The time I couldn't worry enough to change the sheets, clean the tongue sitting dumb
yet leonine just within me. The trains they make the landscape plain and gullible, they say

there is one city. Imagine then rats, dredged gardens, a cadmium shoreline. The city then,
an assassination of invisible things, the grass intractable yet always sick. I want this

lonesome sun to never leave but each day it takes out a dead man's letters and
folds them again unread. I know how to wake again and again: sound of gradient

winds or static or the constant daughter's skulking shadow. There are machines here
that want us and want us and want us and I do not sleep out of kindness of that want.