cold, damp, crystalline. Overlooking
the worn-out city, I crawled to the edge
of my bed, covers clinging to my flesh -
a post-modern lover without
a name: fewer complications. From my
head I melt down to the toes, forgotten
and left to rot behind the fridge
of my apartment, sixth floor and climbing.
Puddling on the floor, I empty
the innermost bile from every pore
and wander like a believer
through the desert and everything red
and sand. The dark rooms
where you followed me down, to kiss
behind the sheets, the clothesline, now
mutter forbidden stanzas into the black
mirror without reflection. She climbs
to me through haze, unprepared,
in yellow leggings and cheeks
of porcelain: mirror on the wall.
Listening with deaf ears to my crashing
cymbals voice and shattering body
in the tub, water rising slowly to drown.
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