Near Sleep In A Smoky Room Poem by Danielle Hanson

The smoke is building something large and hollow,
with a door opening to oranges.
I stopped hearing what's being said.
I can't concentrate over the sound of the light buzzing.
I say the light is a giant bug.
I say the light is an alarm clock to the air.
I say the air needs to awaken.
I say the dream of the air is over.
I say the morning breath, the tangled hair,
the eye mucus are gaining strength.
I say I can hear now,
the words are the kind of bridge bodies are found under.
A tour group is invading the castle behind my eyes.
The trees in my ribs are growing.
My breath is negative presence.
My ears are smuggling themselves across borders in boxes
made to hold bananas.
The tarantulas are nibbling the lobes.
A man unpacks them, puts them on a shelf, three pounds for a dollar.
They're still green while a redhead with breasts of ice cream
places them gently into her cart.
At home, a man is waiting for her, waiting for bananas,
waiting for ice cream.
He looks at the window's thoughts.
They caress him, drag him, make him forget everything
about the sea and the clouds, remember only land.
He sees a building being made of fog.