|from Sonnets to Morpheus
What did you have to hope for? A single sun
reflected in swamp water, in
a building's silver skin. "You don't know
what it is, but it's there, like a splinter
in your mind." Blank checks
pile up in the mailbox. Lunchtime:
singers in grey hats, ambling past
the statue from your first dream. Don't look back.
It's the same exact sun you saw as a kid.
I looked it up already. Everything else
starts slithering across your field of vision.
My flight to Bangkok leaves at 5:15.
I pack a pair of scissors in my bag,
a photograph, an apple, Leaves of Grass.
Unveiling, that's the stuff. I leave
a glass of wine on the table. Ten days later
it's still a glass of wine. I'm not myself.
A glass of wine the color of nebulae.
"Your men are already dead." We were warned,
elsewhere, and shouldn't blame the objects:
blue bottles, skin, your hand without a ring.
I traveled to Bangkok for business purposes.
A truck could snap his spine in half. Still he'd rage
to whisper the truth in a last gargling breath.
Nothing stops him: insidious drugs or robots run amok.
Out-dreaming the ones who dreamt being into being,
he hopes us along. In Bangkok, I'm trying to say,
I looked in a mirror and nothing looked back.
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