eyes closed
the world vanishes
a switch is flipped
and I’m adrift

but the world spins on
i can hear it
if i listen

otherwise, it’s just chaos on a distant shore

two planks plonk against one another,
and I await a judge to call this world to order

the tinkle of a tiny bell
reminds me of snapping icicles
but unless the world has shifted under me
i’m in a place that only knows icicles
on the inside of an ice-cream vendor’s cart

what has made the puttering
of the Jetsons’ car so bass?
oh, that is a scooter

as i drift
a montage sounds,
signalling a shipwreck on that far shore
the clunk of a timber washed against sea worn rocks,
creaking wet rope,
the moans of wounded sailors,
and the screech of a seagulls