It’s the zombies again
Unending procession of the undead
in various stages of decay. What
keeps them moving?
What pushes their will to survive?
It’s the church again
A preacher’s son, at least a decade
my senior, creeping over a
Gospel chord progression—
He’s a zombie.
It’s dark. Winter-comforters-over-your-head
dark; horror-movie-mystery-corner dark
I feel batty, snubbed nose and all, I fear
I’ll slam my elbow. I hear a friend saying:
I progress across a terrain I don’t recognize
my moving pattern as dizzy as a ladybug’s
I smell the coldness of Lake Michigan,
and I know where I am. I feel shivers as if
syringes of Wisconsin’s winter air stab me
I hear a friend saying, “Breathe!
You got this.” I smell buttercup:
chlorophyll and sweet and bitter and
nothing like butter. By now, I have
forgotten the zombies.
REM and Dream Breathing
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