Awake, asleep at the same time.
A bed falling through space.
Apples and pears. Nor would
the nude Victorian be any farther from his thoughts.
As his throat constricts. And lungs fill with pollen.
Bloated women with sharks' teeth; scent of marigolds,
their fiery inhalation, follow. Black sheets rise, puff,
and stiffen. Veiled honeycomb of clouds coming
together and pulling apart like clouds
insofar as nothing is like anything
else, though one reads his fortune in it
like the rain, distance clearly travelled
in spite of the company it keeps. Heaven's wrath
hath the fury of one betrayed by love that will
not leave well enough alone with roses that just keep coming
but always of a different color and always apart
at the seamless juncture of dying and perfection.
All brightness collapses at the sheer intensity
it nurtures. There is but one star. And that is longing.