A lotus leaf mandala appeared to me,
a vision in my threadbare comforter
like a hologram of the queen’s visage
on polymer currency. I saw it clearly.
Tight as bodies pressed against steel,
diesel engines sighed past. We were
each of us brushstrokes in the trailer’s
shitty wallpaper, Rorschach knock-offs.
I Googled Rihanna’s Maori hand tattoo
reaching from the screen to hammered
ink to you. We left Proust’s memories
in the car. If we need him, he’s not far.
Mucus plugged out surrounding trees
rocking back and forth, lust I couldn’t see.
There’s a cord from inside my lips
to each earthly thing I want inside me.