Under a blue light screen the inner corner
of my right eye jumps like a katydid. I am dreaming
 
soft green, grass on Sentosa island,
my own pliant, incapable hands holding
 
up a prism to refract warm sun to the other side.
Meanwhile, I walk my way to work. Everyday
 
on my route I pass by a pair of spotted doves;
they are grounded by their roost but I've never
 
seen the nest. Whatever their metaphor, I lose them
to the parasites writhing in my mind, intimate and hostile.
 
The messages stay unanswered. The Crane Wives
croon into my ear in E-flat major as I
 
click through Excel with fingers numbed by the cold
and from having the world so far away. In the end,
 
I've only ever understood my pain in retrospect.
At least these days I sleep mostly dreamless.