I don’t know how the beetles got in.
Landed like plums rolling off a cloud,
soft erasers inside their mouths,
my dreams were first to go. Siphoned
out via bullet holes, like honeybees
smoked out their hive, chorus of black
lines, burned thick and dark, gilded
grill marks, hexagon honey stuck
to their eyes, there are six sides
to loneliness. Ballistic blowfly,
visions of parallel lives, you hide,
what you hold. Blind to the brilliance,
I died with my eyes at an angle
to my skull. Said I’d be right back.
Nevermore. Mounds of dirt, oh ants,
no one I love, should find me here.
Never had I felt the hardened wings
of sudden flight, mid-run, door
turned cold-angled cliff. Duck-duck,
goose. Pluck a hole in the circle’s skin.
Black rip in a bag. This is where memories
turn corners. Finger tucked around a crescent
moon, light splits and splices the room,
disconnects the dots, casts
a constellation onto sheetrock.
