Where were you love last night, when my heart
was pitching and whirling like a sailboat
in a high-break sea?
My dreams nightmares and nightmares dreams,
I woke up with Death in the sheets next to me.
He laughed and shook his scythe.
He knew it was a lie, he knew he was just being efficient
scaring the shit out of me, that fuckheaded bastard,
he made a face and said he was havin' such a good time,
working for free on his offday, no killing,
no taking-of-prisoners-to-the-great-blue-fiery yonder,
just scaring, like halloween.
But without the candy?
The candy is essential for shitless-scared nights,
nights when you're not next to me
but the nightmare is, when
it's not right it's all wrong and not real,
and then I wake to a pillow,
lime-green in a house I don't know
on an air mattress, hungover
or under my grandpa's dried open eyes.
(Everyone else's overseas somewhere.)
There's no punchline, just a harrowing arcing climb.
There are a million stars in the sky, lovely
but too much humidity to find
them or sometimes,
to even breathe.
As I woke I started thinking about Rumi,
about weeping, about just wanting to exist.
I sat up in the dark bed and knew it was okay.
The shadow of the old man and
Death-on-holiday were invisible.
I cleared my throat and tried to think:
The stars are up there firing off, making newer and better lights and there's nothing I can do to stop them, though I'd give it a go.
The stars are up there firing off,
making newer and better lights
and there's nothing I can do to
stop them, though I'd give it a go.
That's what I told myself,
and keep telling myself,
until this hibernation is over;
until my insides expand again and quiet this dull night roar;
or when at last the morning winks at me,
and I find you on the other side of the sheets, grinning,
a smile on your morning voice.