A fitful sleep,
a nightmare bark,
a dance of death,
incredibly dark.
A Billy Pilgrim
feebly, I surrendered
to the violence,
festooned in the back
Venetian panels
of my darkest
thought,
deep in this deepest
of Octobers.
I woke
and breathed
in (as deep as a sulphur well)
the morning
and reached across
the empty bed
(in your defense, we do have an inviting
sofa),
As if your skin
could erase
those mental tremors,
those fits
of imaginary evil
that occasionally
vex me, us.
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