Wearing a 37-inch television crown, I
stand proximal enough for the static

thrum of its

pull-away kiss

to erect strands

across half my dome’s oblong equator.
Army men slither on folded chicken

wing elbows

under spiral

brambles of

spooled wire, past the glob of lime
discoloration that creeps through

the bottom-

left corner of

our upstairs

cathode ray tube. I want to germinate
a space shuttle jumpsuit—unravel the

arts of stick,

rudder, and


but some ships sparkled and burst like
backyard bottle rockets, and the vast-

ness of space

proffered no


gains, so I wrapped the universe in
packaging tape and rifled it down the

open end of

the pillowcase

I howl into at

night before I

drag myself

to dreaming.