Wakeless Speed Dreams

It’s all washed up now.

A brown paper bag. soggy

Like it had it all before,

air-filled lungs and good circulation—

A pile of dead limbs. 

I flail my arms to keep them stinging.

A black pearl inside an oyster.  A name on the side of a pirate ship.

I wear a patch over my eye so there’s less of me to look at.  

I watch the brown paper bag float by, on the bag the writing: “gone fishing"

in big, blurry letters.  It weeps for me and my dead arms. 

I don’t know why.

It leaves particles of recycled paper in a wake of tears.

I’ll stop flailing now and let my limbs go limp.

The soggy paper bag picked up by the black pearl pirates—

transformed into a hat.