This is the thing, suppose the night were a pumpkin pie
hurriedly eaten bit by bit by little ants that spit
it out into little piles of goo, and the days
supposedly were you on a yellow bulldozer, pushing

in all the ants and all the goo into giant piles

transformed so that you couldn’t
hardly tell which nights were which and what ant was what – even the
illusion of pie disappears like some sort of enormous
needle in a galaxy devoid of anything resembling
knowledge of the spirit.

Imagine, for a moment that the bodies of the ants dissolve
slowly in their own juices and the smell of pumpkin.

Hope means nothing to them, the night
is lost in the boundless piles you’ve made for
some unknown reason. You can’t separate
the parts from the whole, or even discern each from the
other anymore. Dreams are neither pie nor bulldozer nor ant.
Realize,
you have determined the shape of all you see, and it means nothing.