Silverware

Which three tines of fork have stabbed you in the stench of gut?
Do you know nothing of this seed of memory?
I think no thing has passed beyond your lips that has not been seen by the setting sun.
My eyes are open, like the windows facing west.

Dragons have rotted through here,
Spilling time from behind their green and scaly scales,
Lighting the very air with points of smoke
Which only hidden eyes can see.
These eyes live in gray, rainy sources of sound unheard of except in
Realms of certain dreams.

Plastic melts in this type of heat.
Who can fathom it?
I did not ask for any of this to be understood,
Or even to be.
My flesh puckers and splits at the suggestion of such seeming rudeness
Perpetrated by the night sky in a thousand folds of
Bric-a-brac surrounding the edges of
All my endless loitering in forms
And forms
And forms
From out of time.

I dream of the open, endless place where all this stops.
The light has come for me, and I slide into it
Like a lazy spoon on candle-wax.