METAPHOR

Years, then once more I see the stars.

Moonless, monster-spawning night,

eddying sky,

valleys of electric rivers,

fever’s shadows, behind the skull

entrenchments.

Blanched forms materialize,

the pale shades of illusion.

Summers of mold, dead cigarettes,

the trash of fifty years.

Your voice, your breath a silken

strand of spiderweb, your soul

an insect snared over the abyss.

Inside me, an old dream

trembling.