Ashamed because I’m drained

because I’ve slept

 

because I’ve dreamt.

 

Branches at the window, scratch—itch

to alter glass,           as if they can.

 

It was a long time before I knew the moon

is no reflective pool,

 

girls who circle like the moon

in bathing suits and nonchalance

 

get tripped

or stripped

 

& disappear.

These the ones I thought I loved.

 

I did.

 

And dumb delicious plums that planted

cankers down my throat,

 

patent leather shoes that bled my toes,

dresses, eyelid-thin, and made for nymphs & sylphs

 

not women.

Still I’m picking figures

 

out of clouds

& ruminating.

 

Lying idle on the sofa,

gazing at the ceiling—            the offing

 

always far away,

tending to albescence