Crawling through deserts at night,
searching for buried dial tones
to call outposts with beds
of omen imbued trees.

This feels enough like home,
pills pull teeth down my throat
to bite on the heatwaves in my bones.

It’s medicinal in the softest way, enough
to forget allegiances with disorders.

*this is the second in a five-day series of poems The Opiate is publishing by Scott Sherman. Read Day 1 here.