Ideomotorists

I regard my dead like there’s still time for us to save each other, I float presupposing they float: oil rig, oysterluggers, Huckleberry Finn raft. Chain-ganged up the leather cable switchbacks to a bank teller’s window. Courier, dodging downtown traffic, Igloo leaden with its hearts on ice. Flat black reimagining a business district sleepwalk out of breath but breathing being admonished by the rent-a-cops of their waking dreamlets within mine:

Don’t you have an amulet to scavenge in New Orleans? The squatted-in cathedrals my mind conjuring theirs…

Tomorrow night a woman who swerving against her character has come under the sway of a velour track-suited, discharged Marine Corps recruiter who spoke a flood, sat too close to freeze out at the bus stop,

lands on your square. She’ll write your number & your name in a code.