When I dreamed of screaming,
your eyes were a dizzy kaleidoscope.
On my bed. The ceiling was our future,
wet with paint and silver like lost fog.
(Said much prior:
I finger in your name on the dust of dressers,
on the windowpanes of outdoor shops—
I read it on the wrinkles of clothes during damp days.)

My eyes, a strange piano note.
Plucked violin chords stood.
See me as montage with light against my back
walking into the next seconds as if they’re standing still.
(Meaning it, like all was real.
Saying it, knowing nothing is.)

And her eyes were bent flowers
covered by raincoats held out by arms stretching.
Then her/my eyes WERE flowers and your name was black ceiling paint.
Truly, I’m with the pen and the lonely,
bleary and writing on a Sunday morning.

You’re not good anymore and you’re not even my trouble.
I know you I know you I know you well.