It's too hot to sleep, or, rather, the apricot garden
looming in the darkness of the kitchen,
and my thoughts conspire,
to keep at least the back of my sieve-shutter headwork
alive and stealing electrons, from the still air;
that maze that fails to circulate,
regardless of how wide the window has been torn apart.

She leaves seashell footprints down my spine,
the sea shore of my wanting more to this life than idle standby,
the will to stand up and not feel the blood drain
to my smaller toes,
and I am losing consciousness to the sound of agapanther print curtains
only to find it, in full gain or minor refrain,
pulling hemispheric or lobelike conditions
up and out
and out
and out for
hours on end.

So, god save me or forsake me, for I
fall far too easily, into grey-backlit memory,
tasting some sickly scent of smoke and secondhand perfume through my hair until morning,
when I will get up,
wash that old life of wants or hope away,
move promptly and, without warning,
start fresh with another disaster-

Like the day before last.
Like each day, scattered through our respective futures or pasts.

Like the life I once wanted,
and have now come to hide from.
Those bits that just keep slippin' away.