Queens Tunnel to Lexington

Not enough
sleep
dreams where the real
life is lived.
Surrendered realms
which initiate
the inner workings of deals
left undone.
Until there are none to be done.
Only
the premonition
of where we’ll be when they arrive
& what’s next
after they’re gone.
It all returns.   But is it morning
or am I still here from yesterday?
Blood rushes below.   Rain
seeps through windowpanes
the bell
rings.   No.   I will not rise
to receive their grievances
nor their praise, false ambitions
material poetry.
There is another communion to tune in with.
Something more immediate than flesh.

-Micah Ballard