In your dream, the act of breathing is a red-headed girl
with a body lactose-pale and livid against the skin
of water. A crack along the porcelain cup of this,
colored all absinthe with you. The closed white shutters
of your backbone as you sleep toward wrists spilling
their listless snowflakes farther south. Mouth:
night's lilacs branching insolubly. Hair hissing, stems.
Mouth: the hospital: your houses are asking chemicals
out of the dark. Your lids are the lime-lined,
impromptu graves of thieves. As a mind,
your body is a wall of leaves; let its edges whisper
a collage of liquids singing, lips, the sangria weeds.