by John Allen
In the waking night
The panes of snow are shattered
The soft keys turn in wrinkled hands
The lamplights curl back to shadow.
The hatchets of memory swing in dream
And you place quarters over my eyes.
Your face is falling from the sky
in winter cavern, ornate blue.
Your hair falls in my mouth
Like moon slit ice.
If I become warm I will miss you.
Ours is a map written in scars–
The slamming of a hidden drawer.
The closing of the circus.
And angry tea boils.
And the gravestones smile.
And silence pulses radar heat.
This will break apart
I will live in its seams’.