I keep waking up in this burlap sack.
I'm on the edge of the Hudson River.
There are rocks in the bag with me.
I'm naked, so I hop back to my place.
My wife is upstairs, working with the ropes,
which she says she needs for an art project.
The other day, I found these two buckets,
with my feet in them. I was on the couch,
and the rug was vacuumed, and if I traipsed
around in wet cement, I'd have to clean up.
So I waited, tested with my finger—
and when the cement set, firm but tacky,
I dragged to the tub and turned on the tap.
forthchoming in KGB Lit