arterial

Such are endings. Unanimous
and shining in the dark.
They answer to no one. Though
memory reserves a certain time
of day for distant motion.
Now only my body remembers
its gift to forget, my former
name. Behind this broken window
time continues to perform
a crude transfusion where
my dreams are all arterial.

These are quiet worlds indeed
who long ago opened their veins
to fill an hour of leisure.
These are not dreams dipped
cold in the latest red fashion.
This is history, no doubt a very
clever imitiation, count the hours
where the city sings the art
of amputation. I shall drink
to the Nile and the beautiful dead
such patience in their killing faces.

Sanguine, so terror struck, ventriloquised.
This is where they will find me
it goes without saying, imitating
my moderns and cursing the priest
who would marry you.