Here, inquisitor, the banks teem with red ants.
There are steps that crumble
where one’s foot falls into a black lake.
I repeat, eyes grow so heavy
they become hoods. I admit to chewing sand
& biting computer chips. Come back,
inquisitor, I promise to prop my eyes
with stems. There is no Internet. We’ll ferry
to the other side on a raft of ants.
I have plastic in my teeth. The staff is a curtain.
The book is a lamp. I haven’t slept in years.
I itch. The water is snakes. My name is written
on the dissolving steps.
I can’t see, but I hear you inching away.