Telegraphic Transmission

we watched snow fall together
and we probably didn't need to say anything
because it was redundant
but words were comfortable
like blankets from the cold

the car ride home
felt like rain
in unexpected deserts

my feelings and thoughts
are starting to communicate
telegraphically

_ . . _ . . . _ _ _ _
( D R E A M )

and when I wake
sometimes I don't care
that the fire in my chest
is growing

I've correctly intepreted this feeling
as nothing more than a Communist plot
to subversively make men feel
that there's something more
to life than sex

no
what more could I want?

I ask
as telegraphic friction
turns evenings to nights
nights to morns
mist to frost
dew to rain
and rain to snow

blowing around
inverted snowglobe
of my internal life
blanketed and cozy
surreptitious transmissions
escaping my chest
coded in mundane
(yet comfortable)
words

rhythmically repeating
. _ . _ . _ . _
to a unison sleep
familiar foreign dream
echoing in decay
electric mechanical heartbeats