Paul Tran

I sleep on a straw mat
like a desert mesa.

A Santa Ana keeps me awake.
Its bone-dry winds whipping

chaparral into flames. The city
a column of smoke. I wake

with my shirt pulled over
my head. Bright red,

it has penguins dancing
in the snow. I think I'm inside

a snow globe. Everything
vibrates: two tectonic plates

colliding at the bottom
of the ocean, magma upwelling.

My underwear torn off. It's not
a dream. The ornamental landscape

a scene frozen in time:
porcelain flakes flooding

the atmosphere, a lead dome
sky false as glycerin

mimicking gravity, flightless
birds twerking without music,

and me—arms thrown up,
detached.

I make snow angels.

This one my father. I lie
inside him. I go back

to sleep. The world outside
continues

to burn.