You could wake up believing in chocolate chip trees

and a hip hop god who directs

your sheets to rap in the morning. Another day

you might wake as a pimple—

bloated, unwanted, ugly as pus—

and feel everyone rush to cream you away.

The sky might aim its crows at your head

or vicious squirrels at your neck.

Anything’s possible.

Thoughts that glow in the dark and

reproduce, like corn popping.

Dishes that gossip to sinks.

It’s all in the dressing you mix in the salad and

how you choose to regard the tomato:

red from the sun and life on the vine, or

awaiting the knife on the cutting board.

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