Where are you asleep
And can I touch you there
The spiderweb you gave me so lightly
I can’t seem to sunder its threads
Its words, filaments of light

Oh, you are the darker wavelengths for sure

You will have guessed by now
My hatred of you was not hatred
The hatred I turned to disbelief
A doorknob with no door
A door with no house
That sort of logic

I knew you would only repeat as the comet
You are an inveterate repeater
Because you are desire and more
I leave a place for you at the table
The table is a dream, an alphabet
I leave a place for you also at the lake
The lake is only another table
A place for you to dangle feet

I save a place for you there

And in the cemetery next to me I hold your seat

Since I hope to shamelessly continue

I am still much interested in the crime of your hand




Panicked bubbles come from fish
down under a sheet of ice.
Screams will come from rabbits
taken by talons or fangs
in the winter, go into bones.
The moon comes into your bedroom
through that same opening,
as you sleep. And you bolt up
to see yourself in a dark mirror
across the room. But in the image
you are lying back, deeply asleep,
amused at what the moon’s fingers
are doing to you. You have apparently
fallen out of your own dream.
Separations like these routinely happen
to those who sleep around
a winter lake.