Pull back the curtains
so that the light might mingle with the
dust
Let it soak this room
Ghosts lay strewn
through its matrix
under white sheets of seconds.
Tangled elsewhere cries a man
who dreams in shapes and color
and wakes to darkness
and the comfortable throb
of his phallis
But it is his heart that beats
His tears are made of
illusions
Covered in white sheets of seconds.