I woke from another nice nightmare,

the same one as last night:

calling in a midnight green garden,

sickening spilling envy over

the flower beds

and screaming through locked doors;

the keyhole beyond where

battleships flutter,

lopsided

in some old silent film.

Let me bring the colour to this

disease. Because 

I've brought it in fruitbowls,

and bouquets, and I hope

these archaic bastards

will let me through.

But maybe I'll just stay above

the ocean and there gaze

at the sunset we made

the night before at happy hour,

contorting our faces

through the bar windows,

composing silhouettes and sending

them out through the chute of dusk;

the ink washing to gory entrail

by a ravenous tide.