My dreams are peppered with the soft moans
Of thin, angular boys, delighting
In the Garden of Earthly Pleasures,
And the blood-icing screams
Of a woman as the hammer
Connects with her fingers, temple, forehead.
The soundtrack is Charlie Parker,
Though I've never heard him play,
At least, play distinguishably from others.
My fuzzy thoughts are kudzu-covered,
Filtering the light to chlorophyll green
And protecting us from the outside
Or trapping us in. I can never tell
In these hazy morning hours
When I can almost believe
That the truest sign of love
Is blood spilt on the hard wood floors.