[In the blue auditorium of heaven,]

In the blue auditorium of heaven, roses sprout like clouds.
In the pale residue of dreaming, the sky frays—cut carpet.
The blue heals and congeals closer to the summit.
A convalescent breeze sweeps through me and my glassy exterior.
Happiness escapes me. I am a sieve, I think.
Soap suds in a tableau of general iciness.
Each bubble, a head that cannot be so inclined.
An anemic evening, blanched and wobbling.
Cool gel is smoothed onto my kneecap.
The sunset is merely the marks made by some ligature.
There is more to be thought about the elastic trap of sleep.
My job is not to write. What does a job have to do with it?
My old madness is tired. It can no longer fraternize.
Hairs of grass on the skin of the earth, erected so as to trap heat.
Veins constrict under a covering of ice.
My poor circulation sputters blood into my smallest finger.
I learn to keep my other fingers over the same string.
A double-stop, resonant under the interrogating light.
Cheerful, I turn my face towards Fate.
I have no great capacity for pain.
Love cannot be truly opaque.
What about all the skin filament above and inside the welts?
A certain density of angst irons affliction into a person.
It is well-known that what happens to you does not make you good.
Not much is inscribed on the eggshell of my heart.
The strange mathematics of care has massaged the muscle.
What little was written is nothing that cannot be assuaged.
The sickness breezed through, barely rattling the trees.
Etiquette binds me to affable reason.
I can say it: my loss was no loss at all.
The greenly gelatinous night is all foreground.
The whole rests from interpretation.
I enter the data of my dream and walk on.