Somewhere between the dreams
striding without destination
down dimly lit corridors.
On the walls hang portraits
with deep shadows painted into the subjects’ faces;
sombre, forever brooding.
Lamps jut from the walls like trophies
in a safari hunter’s jungle bungalo.
The window is open.
I stand in the hall door staring across the dining room,
hair disheveled, pajamas limp,
but my eyes ripped free of sleep
and my skin, so warm,
gathers cold bumps.
Unconsciously my breaths are shallow and silent,
ears pick up only the ringing in the air.
Doubts assail like persistent gnats,
sure I closed the window, locked it,
remember pulling the curtains,
was it even open yesterday?
Haut [?] ascended the stairs like a chipmunk
the geometric shapes humming about
fingers up northern faces
of the marriage gated
where far away lights lost in
the key to the house
life insurance policy
she rides a horse
wakes with the carkeys in her hand
I’m sorry, that’s all we can do.
One shoots himself.