I never recline in splendor,
I never take repose. The eyes
of an old woman are blue
and stick to me like insects to
a screen. She is not hating me,
though there are those who hate me,
so I never lie in repose for fear
that if I agree with the vulnerability
of sleep, I'll make my own murder.

I don't embrace the unconscious
or analyze my dreams. The eyes
of people who hate me might be
spiders crawling on my hands,
or snails that leave their shells,
but I will not allow their acidic
tounges to touch me. I belive
in ghosts only now that her blue
eyes stick to me like humidity.

I will not outgrow my spite,
though I read books that instruct
me to. No, I'll always lie with my
sleep beside me like a knife.
I forgot my spite, once, only
to wish I had not: He lay me
upon the bed, crossed my arms
across my chest, then fell to me,
pressing a book between us.

I never lie in repose. I am not
a portrait. But I think so still
my joints ache. One day, he
shall not be the same (as I have
never been the same), and we
shall read upon his stone a verse
attributed to my name. This
is my foresight and my fright,
blooming red in his eye's white.