In a dream, I find myself seated at my old desk

making arrangements.

My office building is blank

except for its little swimmy lights.

Outside of which are scattered rosebushes and pine cones.

The air is wavy and pointless,

punctured by the static of roses.

Nothing sprints across my torso

but the warm ghost of a heart.

The speed of the commute train

is minus whatever distance per hour.

My idea of a home is that time goes running past it.

The rate of getting home is gone for the evening.

Many beautiful landscapes arrive too late.

All day, I sit at my work desk and go online.

I read each sentence again in little parts.

It’s a little easier to understand once it’s been broken up. Anyways

I keep going with my daily tasks. As much as I can.

Meanwhile, the conifers are immense and ageless against a sandy desert of sky.

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Hua is a writer and artist. They are currently writing a series of poems about dreams. They love the trees.