I wrote a book
in communication in poetry

but then the wind
and rain came
effaced the text

buffeted me like
some featherweight Dorothy
carried me on the sail of my shirt
from one bad dreamscape
into the next

and nothing made sense in these technicolor worlds
whether inside a Matrix or in
Escher’s möbius head

these systems that would contain us
enumerate even number itself
down the faucet lest
inside leak in, outside leak out
worlds that are and are not the case
released in time through
a tiny spout.