a quilt shaped like your hands

telephone poles are a city's way of trying to touch the sky.  the artery is thick, it moves like traffic, there are snakes in the blood, the ceiling inside the vein is painted like apples, it makes a sound similar to gravel.  what i am trying to do is make sense.  there will be twin ghosts sleeping inside my feet tonight.  at the edge of heaven, there are thirteen children playing a game that seems like the burning dreams of a forest that holds shadows inside its wood.  they sit in a circle all day long, as trains go by.  the ground they sit upon is feverish.  there is a swirling.  mockingbirds watch them.  their laughter rings like gravity.  they will never stop.