An empty canvas calling
wakes me from a dream
in which i had been falling
or flying so it seems…
with a brush full of fog and a head full of hollow
i painted a wet path and dulled out the street lights below
that shone on her face all wrapped up in gauze,
she had been made a gift, a pretty plastic lift,
though her soul they had failed to change
a ‘lift’, that’s what they call it in that language
it’s really no more than an elevator
and i promise, this one only goes to heaven
because nothing works in hell.
