| Up over the queasy glossed acre of scrub pine ‘hind your house
|
| Through the glass of the sliding door it passes now without sound
|
| Leave my clothes in a heap on the floor
|
| Collapse into bed
|
| The world’s dead lid sagging green-black and pregnant
|
| Still it’s a fatuous wish to be blank and brand-new
|
| Noticing motion in this sick and sprawling splendor
|
| Spilling guts
|
| Motes were clouds in spokes of shivering sun
|
| The life to come, the life to come
|
| You snorted up an orgasm times twenty
|
| Then one day you can’t turn the shower on
|
| Look down
|
| All your birthmarks and scars are gone
|
| Skin pink and virgin
|
| A burn victim
|
| What you sloughed off found cold in your bed and mourned
|
| Before ever trying weed
|
| Before the blind opioid glow
|
| He loved his secret family
|
| And what a pain
|
| Hiding dilation
|
| Unnatural brightness
|
| From the corner store clerk
|
| Who never looked up |