Silence—
It blossoms like tumors
On our lips; the face
Of the moon looks into the
Window and sniffs you;
His lips crawl up and down
Your flesh, a maddened desirous
Spider.

Country music—
It plays on the radio, a testament
To human boredom; it is a lullaby
And we sift through the static to find
It with our ears;
It fades, we keep the beat,
Then the voice croons back,
Almost asleep.

Angels—
They chant in a choir high
Above us; the noise is golden
And it pours down like honey
Dripping into our eyes;
It tastes good, we scrape it like
Sleep from tired eyelids, or
Leaves from the gutter.

Flowers—
They are blooming outside like
Tumors on our lips; they are different colors,
We follow the rainbow and then
Return to the quiet room;
We can only lie simply beneath a canopy
Of Chinese drywall that stares
Down like a lost lover.

Silence—
It blossoms as I hold
Up the mirror we have built;
It is made of sand
And crumbles in my fingers;
The tumors on our lips leap out
And crash through the red rag
Of an alcoholic day.