A New Year, An Old Death (A Dream Of Trees)
I can’t sleep anymore,
not without bullets
that blow my brain to bits- or dreams
of trees, that grow suddenly
from envelopes sent to me, by dear old friends.
I worry you’ll commit me for being mad,
or condemn me for all my beautiful, little suicides.
You wouldn’t believe
how heaven and hell are in my stomach, or
as real as any hangnail-
and how I have tombstones for eyes.
It’s the middle of January,
cold as death, and I don’t care,
it’s the beginning of a new year.