The Surrealist Learns to Fly

Occasionally he wakes, finds the cool cube of his room delirious with colors: blaring daffodils and rigid roses, petals a soft, translucent red like the inside of an eyelid. By the window, a clock's expressionless face near glossy skins of magazines, a telephone the color of frozen milk or silence, the color of old. He is melting, his bones grown paper-light, they travel over the bed's pale hills, the woman who's come to wash him. The ceiling is a landscape bleeding white as he floats through the muted winter sky, a boundless symbol of nothing. The woman draws the blind.