I dreamt of you again last night.
You’d got ahead and were 6’5
but your little hands still smoothed the same
and tangled my guts
and tugged them,
teased them with pain.
You had it all on TV
and with baby eyes
I stared at you admiringly.
Oh, but your eyes!
-sad eyes my dear-
still hooded down with a muddied pall
and swirled wide with violet typhoons.
Your lenses still trapped our shadow
and the image heaved my insides out-
tender and pulsing
with suspense on the ground.
I saw my lumped and sickened make within your gaze
and I crept up on wobbling toes
to meet your silken lips
but you turned obliviously
away.
