by Zoe Alexis-Abrams
Previewed, dreams turn heinous,
untrue: like pausing a foreign film at its climax,
subtitles bright yellow against someone's chest,
set against picture, not to follow
a general rule: shot of Detroit and
you're a good friend, Steve scrolled below—
veins of traffic running yellow
around Motor City, an aerial view,
the same colour, but a betrayal—
my waking sensibility.
Shoes lined up behind the line,
ready to walk before me.
Hatchet through the bathroom door:
this is my dream,
but not.
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