will wash into soil. And, God, I hope
you are not real, that sleep can not be
unnerved by harps or pitchforks. I doubt
feathered angels into the most perverted
fantasies. Their doll parts melt against
forked tongues. Sometimes I hurt in painless
places. Clouds appear as halos of scorn.
I look for you through windows, in moving
crowds. My eyes become needles and sew
the impossible onto this. This. I hope
I rot in sunlight, that civilizations
of multiple-legged kings earn history
under my ribs. I hope red worms eat
my eyes, wriggle through my last dream. I hope
they remember why breathing feels so good.
