I might well add
lorazepam to this list.
Please. Let me slip, then sleep.
Decades of congregants
arm-linked with benzos, all
gleaming like cumulative
dreams. I wanna hiss and creep
assembled purple, yet
they’re reds and blues and most
refuse to even meet. Summoned
and huddled below the hills.
Aye, I crawled and hurled in
your clawfoot tub.
Your throat is open; I will bring only kindness.
This. Oh, this. You harvest this…
Never forget the blue-scratch scry of the sky.
You ready yet? You marshalled
flocks and stockpiles. Corralled
a mess of ungulates. Oh. You,
woke and vital, primed to
track and keep on following,
ceaselessly fingering me,
blastocysts and humunculi,
enduring, narcotized, eternally
transgressed. Is this
how each and every goatlike story
dreams-undreams, and trips upon its end,
restless, barely dressed, so endlessly