Creatures crawl though their underground tunnels

I and you, move like worms beneath the rotted city,

our gray hands clasped together, as worlds flash by the windows.

I wish we could share this one,

not count down the mornings, steaming cups of coffee, lines in the sheets, each one the last.

We sleep enclosed below bricks, dream of lost hours and cedar floors in houses we’ve never seen.

And time cannot be counted, or seen at all, spread out thin around us,

not moving in nauseating leaps like a subway car.

Our bodies travel against the tides of sand and time,

and people who creep into holes and fill them with light.

We peer into houses, not our own.