from a journal I kept first-year, this entry titled "a stream of consciousness writing break- history papers suck"

Where are you?
in how I answer, everything is false:
Two feet against the ocean,
sky wide.
Head lifting up – my eyes are closed.

Really, I’m two sneakers against some
old gray tile, Alderman stacks 2M
and no windows – my eyes are closed.

I love the thought of being somewhere
now
and then being somewhere else
later.

There was a man in line for coffee
behind me,
an hour ago.
now he is home or walking his dog-
we were together then
and now it’s later.

How much here makes up a daydream?
Only the want of space plus lack of space,
not actual space.
Only the wishes for things
and not the things themselves.

The things I want for answers:
a big yellow sun and quiet
seagull sounds,
my salty skin
and pores made for leaking love-
the dripping water from your palm,
hands cupped.