this is a good dream, even if the falling is
no less real, and even if my feet will crumble
on the lurking ground. my throat itches, and i am
awake in this room which is no less vacant for
all my presence and there are no aspirin. here
is the sun with its tired surprise, the morning. there
are the cars and streets moving in the usual
fashion. the room wants to be rid of me. it must
fall open and communicate with other dim,
stifled rooms when i have slaughtered my body in
the sheets and fumbled streetward to sooth the itch. what
do you learn, room? what have you told, why are the stains
and the accusing glasses pointing so when i
return? there was the girl some time ago. she would
want to know where the guilt comes from, that hums over
the bed and descends, like an uncaring thumb, to
blot me out. she would help me, when the universe
has fooled me again, and the joke has gone too far,
when the itch, climbing, deep, remains after bottle
after bottle, and i inch toward death and i
must poke my body into a thousand vacant
darknesses before i strike the correct sleep, and dream.