They ask: In what language do you dream? 

In poetry, propped up with proper punctuation;

pointed and poised, periods and pauses 

in their perfect places?

Do you build moon castles 

with well-fashioned brick fabrications, 

cinder blocks stacked between slabs of sleepy cement, 

stone peaks place kisses on a star-grazed night sky, 

do you see in star gazes? 

Do you sway under speckled freckles, 

golden flecks, sun-fire confetti 

in an astronomic, catatonic

sweaty spaghetti monster sex dream 

cinder block celebration, 

with proper punctuation? 

Poet, do you dream while standing, building, 

or do you build on your back

staring at your ceiling 

or up at the stars, 

your mind its own muse? 

What a crazy place you live.