The Death of Lilly Obscure (version 3)

Stagger down these winding
green steps to the water and look
who it is: you really didn’t think
that a coin on each eye would be enough,
now did you? Empty your pockets. Time
to pay, pay everything, and it’s all
just to get someplace you never wanted
to be. Pass through the willows, over
these wide-open mouths, these broken
fingers in the bracken. We are
sitting on top of the remains
of the scintillating black origination —
try me again — I have to adjust
the lens, I have to fill
in the corners of the frame. It’s
the cornea. It’s the Louis XV chair.
It’s your hair swallowed like so many
really bad drugs. After image — aftermath —
unbecoming:
we are jumping for joy,
sleeping for synecdoche,
the oars slice through like
butter turned blue mold
from the fire.

My Last Nightlight

I fall back into the water and swim
through concrete in a lovely
uneyed haze – known lights
are spiraling out of my intent, into
my fog shrouded museum – I was
told that these fish swimming out
of my veins would save us all,
create a life without burning or
temperature. I wander through
these fallow wheatfields, this unflooded
red pool; this isn’t mine.
The last psychic I spoke to had nothing
to say to me about anything. I climbed
into a tree trunk and shut
myself against the thickening
pressure –not forgetting.