She bleeds into me like cloud
falling into a river. Monarchs
of sky drift in shadows.
Some nights I fear I'll over-ripe
and melt through the sheets
into a puddle and stain the carpet
underneath. People will ask if a man
died and no one knew
until the neighbors noticed
a wall of molded mail stacked
against his door. Or if a violent
murder occurred because someone
was caught burning down another
wall. Welcome to the carpet desert
where men bury themselves in
the heads of their children, where
they drown in the thought of each
other. Her sleep smells like bruised
apples and I wonder
if it'll ruin me too.
***
Kent Weigle is a trans-dimensional being momentarily trapped
in this world. He's working on getting back to his own plane of existence, but
until then he'll write poetry.
