Perhaps the Night
When chronic taut muscles
and bed sheets strain insomnolence,
the body rickets-
lumped and fetal-
Struggling in its own existence.
The skin shrivels sugar brown,
grows cancered
with stubbled matted hairs
drawn close as dying clover.
The stomach lolls and thrusts
then lacquers
a bile-smeared sweat a satin gray.
And love pours fast-
chilled and damp-
like thick parched rust in driving rain;
a sediment seeking a sifted rest
a senility that captures death
and hides the truth
that gnaws it quick.
For treasures precious this
a Solomon’s seal of gold
will profit from fatigue,
and the blue mist night of space
and heart pound crash of time
are mused by traumaed traffic lights
that dance and sing on bedroom walls
on pillow cases, choked, soaked blind.
Home’s mothered myth opts out
on summer nights like theses
when life’s last supper’s efforts maim
and crystal to a gagging salt-
a breath released but never missed
a soul sought tangent never gained.