In the dream the rainbow is asleep
or dead in the corner of the hotel room. It is
a sackheap, distorted accordion-
mouth, sour breath. Partied out,
slackheavy, its wet, radiant scares bled gray.
The room smells faintly of oysters. Peer through the dirty glass:
eyeless horses gallop around a lampshade
with a tasseled border. A whisper away from the burnt-out
bulb, a little chain dangles.
In the dream, no voices: you are lonely
for them. The dirt on the glass—even it might speak.
At times the rainbow seems
to stir, but you cannot resuscitate it.
Such thin ribs.
Such an unforgiving set to its mouth
when you vanish.