I woke up. I thought about the day. I thought about giving up. I gave up. I stayed in bed. The bed sprouted legs. The bed broke through the wall. The loadbearing beams developed hairline cracks. The plaster was everywhere. I was awake. I hated it. I coughed. The bed shushed me. The bed carried me into the yard. The grass pulled itself out of the ground. The dirt moved itself aside. The bed dumped me into the hole. There was dirt and blankets and plaster everywhere. I was lying in the hole at a really weird angle. The dirt poured itself over me and filled the hole. The grass replanted itself. The bed slumped over near the house and turned into garbage. The house started to crumble and turned into garbage. It rained. The bed turned into wet garbage. The house turned into wet garbage. I stayed in the ground. The water soaked into the ground. I turned into wet garbage. Nothing really happened after that.


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Zac Smith is the author of 50 BARN POEMS.

Read ZS's postcard.

Read more of his work in the archive.





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