Incan Drone Theory

we have the same dream / every night sleeping on / this side of the door
dr soma and his black / dog come in through the window

in the still air – they / are one cloud of blue breath that / falls on our faces
we become like the dead / beneath / this anaesthesia

out on the dry field / a roaming moon pulls the green / from grass and eats it
cold light that seeps into the / eye is a material

To be continued…