it’s like sleeping standing up. 

or drowning in the dessert

aisle of wal-mart, clinging to life

one mini-pint at a time. see only

the saccharine streetlights that walk you home,

not the smog-smeared halos they wear.

wake up to the same yellow countenance 

that kissed the face of man when earth was free.

if they could sell sunshine, they’d bury you in it.