You will be unable to know the order of things:
clothes on sand, two dead dogs, collections
of signatures, moonlight, a plate of greens.
When you open your eyes, what you remember
to forget is lightning bolts and thunder.
Your timelines will fracture and your characters
will claim certain truths but will never agree.
When you reach for a map, it will disintegrate
at your touch. You will pray for a speeding
tour bus to smash into your body
on a narrow curve overlooking the peninsula
or to collapse in a pile of bones
at the bottom of the sea, but will wake
to high pitched foam whistle and roasted beans.
Sleep will shapeshift into bloodier visions.
What you think you know will distort
and only appear as marginalia. When you speak,
uncontrollably, no one will ever believe you.