2:26 am / Monday, May. 25, 2009
Even alone in our graves,
we're surrounded by bodies
memories seep through dirt
a marble quilt stretched
across our eventual bed
what a dream we'll find death!
deja vu on repeat in our heads:
ticking clocks still clack after their
just reverb in your eardrums
as real as phantom pains or
the shame you feel when they
state all your claims in
my court of appeals.
if we breathe, we receive the past's blessing we crave--
demand: hungry open palms of our hands.
So I stroll their napping grass blankets
my minuet appreciation
for the invitation to your bed
but my dreams are still too foggy
for my heart to be dead.