in last night’s dream i knowingly did awful. our love’s trauma
snuffs the courtyard, salts it glass-stained—vegetation grows
only to house the tongues of snakes, preening to bite. the old hotel
encores its chant of honeymoon suites, all of them buzzing
decaywards. my own soul, askew, charms against what was once
a mattress, now a trundle slipping with lip-whispers. there are sorry stories
in all the bathtubs where legs, not ours, once tangled rubbery. we sit in them
now, our own legs wet with shard-cuts perfect for re-reddening the carpets.
flies garland us pastural & we wear the best remains of night clothes recovered
from the wedding pool. this is the future we would never dream of
leaving. watch us appear tenfold in every broken mirror, all our old laughs
the dying out of auditorium chatter. there is nothing for us here.
this hellscape, our hellscape. we are so mundane at the threshold
of this cosmic tonsil sweetening to swallow its rightful hole of earth.