snarl

 The fire sounds like a centipede cracking its knuckles.

You are there, too,

reading a book in a language

neither of us understand.

I am a partially musculated skeleton,

my heart merely angel veins embracing a void.

All of my dreams are like this:

I’m standing in line at the bank,

watching a redneck argue over mortgage rates.

I look at a watch

that I lost a decade ago.

I’m taking a test as the school sinks into the ground.

You are using your mother’s idioms. The dog is

oddly quiet.

The only thing left to do

is wait.