picture of a honey-tongued lantern
hovering above a river you can't see,
because of shadows and because
the photograph is too small.
I am a planter, waking up slow
and heavy after dreams of forever
with a book opened, facedown
on my chest like a dead butterfly,
the bookmark splashed with breath
and water, making a medusa pattern.
all that's left of my quilts
is what's rustling between my legs,
under the broken-blind light
of headache dawn, dust particles
cascading like tiny angels
being damned to hardwood hell.
for worse or better, I am pledged
to the resolution of love,
letting my bad breath rise and remind
that I am alive and each exhale
is a chance to move a monster.