Waking to sunrises and the lure of disaster
I dreamt he said the rings were fantasy;
as if I had made the pages suggestive
and so much collapsing from my looking at it.
So much anxiety to sleep, and the day
roofed with unsolved murders. I would love –
despite the white at my temple still hidden but,
with the creep of ambition, it spreads
like parched earth under an inexorable sun. Nothing
is the disease to which I have succumbed; dragged
by its empty pathology to these compressive dreams –
these deep and indomitable disfigurements.
©2012 This work is the property of the author.