it's the cold, rusty, drippy chamber of hinges,
blind mirrors and naked faucets,
tiles, crippled locks and idiot scrawlings on the enamel--
the place where we committed ourselves months ago

The stars are made of silver needles
glaring down with pre-apocalyptic fury
embellishing the reddened sky
devouring its dark divide

We can feel our bodies around us

I sense that I am of another ilk,
a creature out of place in foreign climes,
who sees the streaks of cloud like skeins of silk
that hover in a faint polluted brine;

a muted voice streams forth golden and unintelligible
from somewhere out of sight,
proclaiming the day
bright and listless and stirred by tired winds,
the sore muttering of birds

i make gilded dreams bleed from your head like
the heavy liquid dusk of summer,
and vagaries tumble out in an ascension
of scarlet wings. i pry apart your heart

the moon
glows
dim and anemic; my eyes
are flickering like goldfish, pupils
swimming furiously from side to side
in their love-drunk orbs, and BAM! some crazy star