1 minute read
Ace Boggess
Camel Crickets
follow autumn into the house as if to flee a chill we’ ve yet to know. Ugly little excised tumors, they grow from carpet, walls, hanging towels, shoes. How do they enter? Teleporters from the future, bringing foreboding, they carry stories like disease. We will not listen, preferring to torch the residence to rid ourselves of omens.
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Ace Boggess
Can We Dream of Each Other Without Want?
Some bond exists: a passion sense in the subconscious. When we argue about the density of nothingness or whether to run from or fight the monster that chases us through empty offices or caves that smell like wet sneakers, rust, we desire more than this: sensual or severe.
I dream you into laughter, joy; you dream me into a house with locked doors, windows barred. I dream you beside me in the classroom; you dream me with tender kisses, broken legs.
We mean what to each other’ s dreamselves? We share no imperative: dream-me imploring, dream-you embracing.
Our minds are complicated liars— we see through them while we sleep, deny them when we speak of buddhas standing guard on lonely roads.
