in the hollowness of night
my grinding neck can now echo -
syncopated with the grinding teeth of a
candy-headed little boy
who files her bones in the ether of dream state,
so vulnerable in my bed of blankets.
we deem our sun room the fun room
and flip dominoes that clink and clatter
like handfuls of marbles,
we play dominoes,
but I don’t know
whether or not I penetrate into your darkness
as you play your slumber films
beneath those eyelids,
or how my solitude has left me now
unable to decipher
moving lips and waving hands.
I cannot recall your signals.
I cannot unravel the strings so easily.
I dare not let you in.
I dare not mock or correct
the minimum of two glasses you daily overturn
or your inability
simple linguistic direction.
you would cocoon yourself into the pit of my arm
weaving a nest of hair drenched
and there you would live blissfully.
oh! and for this, I adore you.
I would show you the truth of lips upon lips,
of lovecup and lightning,
or flesh in ecstacy.
I study hands romanticizing creation
and I tremble in wake as
fingertips softly touching
as equally as I yearn for them.
I would carry you upon my back
in preparation for your rationalized apocalypse,
respecting your slack
and training to make perfect aim
when the whirling smoke of hell,
deficient, disordered, and deranged -
dead one walking.
I obsess over decay,
the great unknown,
the withered profoundness of vanishing.
the normalcy of ceasing,
to be honest,
I cannot guarantee I will last long.