anne elias

After all these years to take to drowning in bed,
Sweet sewery dreams, television theme songs.
The fingers lock up, in unwanted positions,
Need to be willed, awaiting with terror,
Little bits of cardboard, pieces of
Something with color,
Pulled towards an element,
Where and when it doesn't happen,
Ultimately doesn't happen.
Surrogate travel, simulating movement
Through space, across the board.