Confidence in the future is waning.  The moon tries to pull me out.

Around my ankles, the jaws of an alligator, a gentle bite. The teeth

around  the  skin  form  a gate  to a  small portal.  I  stretch  for  the

moon but there’s no grass,  no weed,  no root—no hold.  I  swallow

the moon.  The alligator  swallows me,  whole,  and  returns  to the

wild. When it sleeps, I am removed from its mouth by myself like a

sideshow demonstration staged for the nocturnal animals,  for the

absence of light.  And when I feel more teeth,  and  more  teeth,  at

my skin,  my  sideshow  is  endless,  it’s  hard  to  worry.  I  am  both

sword and swallower. Both in- and outside of the alligator.




I dream of away. Far away or close away.

My passport lapsed. Expired years ago.

You knew that. On tests I always guessed true

because I wanted something. Something veiled

in the back of my mind. Let go of the earth.

The grass. Lose track of the duration of your sleep.

Lose track of if you sleep. Why won’t you tell us?

I open the bag and lay out the things I’ve brought

in order of size on the bed. Never read faces.

Why won’t you show us? I’ve said this before, but

we wake up really far away from home.

The house depreciates. I would be more than willing

to have an idea. I tilt my head. There’s a man in space.

He tries to roll dice. He can’t win. He can’t lose.

David Wojciechowski lives and dies in Syracuse, NY. His first book, Dreams I Never Told You & Letters I Never Sent, was released by Gold Wake Press. He can be found at davidwojo.com and on Twitter @MrWojoRising.