I hang my head
on the furniture van
abandoned alongside
an arcaded palace;
alas my woman
is the brand of goose
that cruises through cemeteries
breaking the periscopes
off graves.
I hear a laugh swim up
from the part of myself
I’ve killed:
those moons 
will be there
when I can’t even walk.
I know the squalor
of night to night survival,
like the lock of hair
in a dead man’s palm.
I place a hanky
over this dream
and wish a trampoline
over her mother’s village.
The trees
with their long red hair
dressed in sudden rain
wave a sigh to me—
aphasia smile,
belladonna kiss:
another motionless voyage.
I’ll sit down now
and drill a little hole
through this dawnlessness.