(Set to the sounds of NCC17001) 

Dust collects on hard wood floors because of gravity, I think. 

The dust leaves imprints on my feet

miniscule craters white as moons.

In dreams I beep instead of speak,

my mouth made of metal, heavy as lead. 

The canal runs deepest at dawn,

the fortune cookie read.

We ate Chinese food, speculated

on Freudian theories, and went to bed. 

My thoughts are clear as seltzer water

sitting, at around four am, on your lawn.

I gulp cranberry juice, until I realize

it dries the crevices, and the liquid’s gone. 

The hair of the dog lingers on your floor

along with the dust. A single claw reaches

outward for comfort, which is denied.

Last night I found your collection of Entertainment Weekly’s in your drawer.  

I think if I read them all I could find a code.

Every third letter of the seventh sentence would

spell out a poem, written by a Romulan computer programer