In a dream, under violet
light, you appear and, for once,
we know each other, you ask
will you stay with me this time,
and
Waking is akin to a dredging,
my lungs are fire, ravenous air,
wet palms against the spinning earth,
why does my mind still invent you,
does my subconscious heart
still ache, awake, at the thought
of your ghostly loneliness?
My limbs hang heavy through
morning routines, hot water
to the bone, but some
indigoes won’t rinse loose,
your memory a bright pink
sore in the gums, and my mind
a tongue runneth over:
where are you today, and
do I haunt you this way,
and was any of it real, and
is it better if it was?
michael king 