By | 1 July 1999

The most terrifying sound—
an ice cream truck
in the middle of the night.

I’m perfectly flat
feeling my fingerprints.
It occurs to me that
the answer to our childhood questions is:
we’re being tortured.

When I’m with my thoughts finally
I’m someone else, I am
driving an ice cream truck though the night
with no lights, pulling on the string that rings the bell.
I am the unwholesome whippoorwill trilling in the moonlight.
I am awake late defending the campsite against elves.
I am tortured in a sandbox at the army base.
I am throwing sand in a little boy’s eyes.
I am getting very sleepy.

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