Levees break in the brain. Wind
flips the leaves over. This
late morning the sun
still hasn’t burned off
the bad dream from earlier.
Something is subtracted, added
from what you thought was
permanently. Everywhere I
is under construction. Half of this
is an illusion. See here you
there is no place that does not from.
Observe the pieces piled around
temporary walkways, cocoons
wrapping condos. Before our
earthen time, directionless
hardens into labyrinths—later you
always mistake it for
Garret Burrell attended UCLA and Sarah Lawrence College. His chapbook, The Plague Doctor, was published by Achiote Press in 2008, and he is the former poetry editor of At-Large Magazine. He has been at work on a book dealing with global warming and evolution. He currently lives in Brooklyn.