by Ian Martin
once i was a bricklayer.
i layed house-shaped piles of bricks.
i dreamed of house-shaped people who could fit exactly inside.
they would not have room to breathe or move at all.
their thoughts would wriggle away
through holes in the mortar.
i dreamed i was a bricklayer.
i made people-shaped piles of bricks.
i died and someone else
built them instead.
Ian Martin is dying.