Murmur to me.

Amuse me with your fondest memories

of things that never happened to you.

Mellow ghosts hover high in the heat

drugged on what they stole from my secret box.

Honest textures undulate

in this valley of embarrassment.

Your face is plane.

Eyes unending.

Why did I loose my secrets on a world of cold mirth,

of casual scorn?

The immeasurable suffering of the sun in summer-

to work and work

and nothing but the self is immolated.

I too am an ambitious failure,

unable to turn the tide,

washing my linens with tears.

I know what it is to be fire surrounded by emptiness

and ice.

The dust stalks me like a black cat.

Every bleating town I go to

a chunk of me falls off.

My breath smells of earthquake.

Drunk my eyes tremor.

On the trip home I will find where everyone left me,

see blocks of myself in ditches.

She is a wind rippling through

a field of water,

the flowers gasping to stay above the plastic surface.

The world can blow away like a wish.

She is a wish of piano fingers

and leathery song.

The touch of her mind on the water

designs waves that don’t care who they drown.

He is an island,

crunched and crumbling.

Seven sisters treat the water to something

Red

New

Foul.