I am like a flower that won't stop
opening and closing. I scare
all the scientists. Our bed
a soft table. In my dream
you and I take off our clothes with a potato peeler, becoming flesh
one curly strip at a time.
In the morning there will be everything left.
I admit I have freed
myself from beautiful things. Raspberries, children,
the white telephone.
The sound of mania
on the horizon, rolling upwards like an eye. I check behind
the shower curtains, I open all the
cupboards in the city. It is summer
everywhere I look.
Lindsey Webb's work can be found in likewise folio, ILK Journal, H_NGM_N, and Bodega. She co-edits elsewhere mag and is poetry editor for Inscape: A Journal of Literature and Art. She will begin her MFA at University of Massachusetts Amherst this fall..