My nightmares are your confetti
so you may step over tiny skulls
like a satrap among un-housebroken whippets.
The sour diapers of morning
give way to the overripe plums of noon
give way to the designer cheeses of evening.
Then night is no one’s problem,
how tender it is with its murderers,
how consoling to its trillionaires,
that lost spaceman music in the pines,
god opening his box of fishhooks.
Dear Reader, I thought
I was prepared but I’m never
prepared but please, take this,
it is your lift ticket, your perfume
that lingers in the fire-fickled room
long after you’ve vamoosed
and made that poor boy nursing
his third cinnamon daiquiri
realize he missed his chance,
your bones already asterisks,
your chipmunk glance a schwa.