The Spine of a Passing Dream

Amphibian clock radio glow
irrigate me.
The night noises dim
the ring of toybox guitars
and finger cymbals.
A sobbing visitation
shakes the walls
of my curtained eyelids.
Looped spliced tears;
let down girl cries
for
dog years
in these tiny hours.
I hide in the spine
of a passing dream
reaching over rivers
choked with mercury
and sorrow.
The falling feeling
pulls me through
the dead mattressed
sheets
out into nothing,
seeking nothing
until I hang,
ribcage box kite framed
above the bloodless
under otherworld.
Here my words are
sand scubbed by
undertowed regret.
I am tree rooted still
with shame
and
finally quiet.
Finally quiet.