The sunlight penetrates
through the OCD-cleansed panes.
Those circumcised shafts
of the early autumn rays
wet my bed with Sandra Bullock facials.
A group of rebels takes over
the other side of the world.
Their guns face the sky, and
the bullets’ trajectories trace
some accidental nobodies.
I stare at the clouds gossiping
about the health of the rain
My brother’s girlfriend pops
some urgent sleeping pills this morning.
I call my brother who knows nothing
like me, ask if he will join for the breakfast.
No answers descend from his sky-room.
The wools of disjointed data
roams in the household.
Illustration Nick Victor