My skull is humid. And hot within—sticky wind presses cloud against the bone. The sound inside it is that of riding in a car, or of a fan set on low. The eye sockets are lined with dried out trees. From the jaws, candle wicks. Where there were ears there is bass from the next door’s music and wet yeehaws. My skull hangs toward the ground—from it a cat slinks in the grass—bored and sweating things missed, this moment is not enough. My skull rocks between memory and dream.

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