Glass Gods
 
You are
in love with your hallucinations
granted by glass syringes
of moonlit sea
foam of childhood memories
naked and frenzied that touch your skin
stink up the place and your voice
shrills in your head as scenes from old
home movies surface in chaotic
rhythms and these lilac walls
smell like mildew and last
year's newspapers
breathing obituaries here on
Bacchus's trail
we use ambulances as hayrides.

Tori L. Wilfred


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