our uneasy, smoldering
dreams
which leak and rise
into the night
like curlicues of smoke
from some
phantasmic cigarette
that repopulate anew
the great hanging archive
which we all know,
upon rising, to call
the veil of sky?
What then, is the difference
in regretting a thing
or desiring it?
Would we still long
to relive the quaint
feeling of a kiss,
or clumsily desire
fewer screams than laughter?
If it's dark, fretful nights
that engender
the day,
what on earth's the use in
being afraid?
