last night. i let all the cold bleed in with the blue sky. and every white speck sparked in my eyes; and i blinked against the bright still it scratched. and back back back i went through a thousand telescopes telling me over and over how bad i've been in the conscious never knowing: were you there with me, pressing against the blueblack cold, asking if the world was old or new? (we can never remember way down here) and you and i made friend with the cactus, the bluefish and the rhinoceros, until they turned on us and cut us quick, fingertip to fingertip, and our hands bleed as we walk into heaven on our back, wishing for some credit in all of this meaninglessness. but there is no credit check, just me and you and everything we’ve done wrapped into one garment, lying on the floor, unable to lift itself from the murky, dendron daylight that has worn it thin. (it only matters what’s within. doesn't it?) in our hands were blisters, but whose are they?