ScreenTime

angel fire evening
watching clouds clear
the softest spot in the sky
draping moonsmoke velvet over
halo-hanging earth
I brush screen time from my eyes for repatriation,
and forgiveness for not being part of every thing asked of me.
masking would be a better term if it meant that I
loved Halloween and not that every new person makes me feel under siege.
pounding afternoon war drums in echo on a daylight coffee date
and I’m smoking again. the ballad of bad habits like a moth in the light
because I’m still wondering if my mom liked me when I was a kid.
I was paralyzed by endings that I couldn’t recognize a beginning.

looking for a love like hallelujah in the dark
and hearing the heartless sex of bodies sweating bodies
(infatuated) everyone ending on different days of the week.
asleep—I dreamt of Death sauntering grey snow and TV static, scrolling left to right like Nintendo at the end of the world—I hung him in my arm between myself and my younger self, a trio of time belted by corporeal boundaries.
this scene, this small room sanctioned all light,
seeking alms for Death in a dream lamenting colorless landscapes with the backbite of remorse.

something like a door opens in the middle of the night.
robe to the floor and I wake up twice
miniature suns unfurl
like morning ferns
something like a door has opened in the middle of the night.