All land was once sea.
They told me this when I was young
Walking along a cliffside path
Observing sedimentary rock.
Within the walls were fossils
Thousands of years old.
You could see the shapes
Of bones and seashells
Like candy molds, now empty.
It might have been a dream.
I remember many places
Only visited in sleep.
Houses, for instance
With windows wide and endless stairs,
Halls like mazes traveled somnambulant.
So you see, my memory is tainted.
Sometimes when I unlock the door
The lawn is underwater.
The cars float past,
The streets are downed with seaweed,
The trees wave their arms like monstrous anemones.
I hold my breath.
I am the imprint of a shell
Dusted out of a crude manmade hill.
Scientists found me
And picked me apart,
Studied the structure of my bones,
What I ate,
Where I slept,
How I lived.
There’s a lot you can guess from footprints.
Do I have honest eyes?
They shy away from speaking
And flutter along the ground like wounded birds.
I read somewhere that it means I’m lying.
I used to like watching television.
Now I prefer books.
At times I look out the window
And realize I’ve left the ground.
The house has unhinged itself
We’re rising into space.
Above the clouds the atmosphere
Is dark blue. The air is thin.
I hold my breath.
Gravity releases.
The room begins to spin.
I collapse on the ceiling
And the windows explode.
The end.
