This maddening silence is not your fault,
just a great struggle to connect
the red lights.
I fear opening the window
that the clouds of your sweat
may escape to rain on some other skin
that your long whiteness might fall
off some other old mattress pushed
against a wall.
It’s not that I didn’t sink into
want at first glance
because I did, and drowned.
It is that every night I dream
of your lonely death
and wake up puffy and ashen.
Blooming like blood in water
yellowing and bright
Is it getting clearer or darker?
Is it burning holes in your sight?
Each twitch and sighs rise
like red eyes from
that Florida swamp.
You fell while traipsing
on logs and slid through
a hole in the air
sea and fog.
So I called a plumber to dislodge
these balls of memory from my throat.
clad in ropes of unconsciousness.