Starring in a sick man's dream ain't easy,
but it's warm and the dark is chiseled noiselessly
in there. Three steps forward and I'm
drunk, shining still off
his cold chin, brains hot with fever and sleep.
Under his eyelids, I'm trying to think around
my world. I wonder at my grandfather
crouched in his foxhole, eating mud and wanting
his hands among the flouncing beat of mortars. What
did he cry for? When I drink wine I feel
his steel plate in my own guts, warming like
a rod, spun by sadness.
The odd pull of waking leaves us both
like a thirst for water after whiskey.
What would I do from it? The dust on boots
from a distant star, quaking gently in its fleece.
I'm sleeping for two now and the crime
used to be a spiral, but now is peculiar
and nothing to be proud of.
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