Middle of the Night

In the middle of the night, a handless chair sits in the rain. The refrigerator flickered, and a white fish swam through the living room, taking away the unborn Tuesday. I hung the curtains back onto the sky, and the sky sank because of it. After midnight, all the doors began to learn the shape of lips. Under the bed, a small piece of afternoon was hidden, molding and growing strangers' fingerprints. The moon didn't rise; it just called someone's name wrong from another room. So I woke up. The pillow was stuffed with teeth from afar, biting a soundless clock, one by one. At three forty, the street suddenly flipped over. A school of black fish fell from the power lines, passed through shadows, and swam towards a non-existent window. Outside the window, someone was extinguishing the sea. Standing in the center of the room, holding a yesterday that hadn't happened yet.