into space reserved for flying

Jimmy Dreams about Ex-Presidents

We spend our weekdays recounting dreams. Drunk sun lurching in and out of the leaves, then losing its nerve beside our white house. You say ex-presidents are the problem. Clinton comes gripping your shoe’s only tongue. Reagan hand-shakes your amputated arm.

Washington won’t stop washing his teeth. He kneels at the mouth of a New England mountain. On top, there’s an office filled with rank birds. The flapping makes the real weather retreat. All we’ve got now are flocks of false clouds. An appointed time when the turnstiles start spinning.

On the border of your tongue, there is something asleep. So we invent different words as the moon slurs along the sky’s dark edges. Like a series of cardinal vowels, played at equal acoustic intervals, our mouths move away from every language, into space reserved for flying—aphasia. We take a long walk in this rather small place.

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