poem: if you squint it says dusty beards

under the bed, the marbles red
we're bowling for cryptic dreams

our brains are eggs our skulls are
bowls of sticks and grass and string

it is just hot enough here for discomfort
we have learned to fear the wind.
we cannot stop yawning

our brains are 
leaking air
venting steam
green with brown blotches

dusty boards across our cloth sky are 
lines in a hand clasped over 
the mouth of our world

we hear thunder as the cruelty 
of its laughter