I wonder if the shape of this flesh
is complicated by the electricity within it.
(The sky can't be a cruel joke.)
In my dream is a face I've never seen,
electric eyes. I look to the ceiling,
the pasted stars--glow-in-the-dark--
and trace the shape of a storm cloud (unintentional).
I've spent a lot of time in this body,
and yet it feels borrowed, not mine.
Are faces recycled sometimes, a Julia
in Eighteen-fifty now a Sandra in Twenty-oh-nine?
A different face appears, and I swear I've seen
those lips before, those eyes, but where?
Feeling electric, I caress this dream, careful
to ignore this (clumsy man-made reality).
They don't know how the electricity
got in our brain, in our heart. How can it keep
time, this constant dance? The sky can't be
a cruel joke but it's silent.
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