These vast
                         chances, all
scalpel intimacies. Burning gun chariot
billowing polyester doom, cock her trigger
with a click

 

& the clop
                         of hooves, our night
mares. The bells peal seven o'clock's
news. She wants a cheap black raincoat
                         & its slick

 

with the rain
                         makes her Bergman,
stamping through colossal weights,
like memory. It's not true; film
                         sticks

 

when it's wet
                         & flies caress
sentiment, over-ripe fruit bears
outside insides; traditional feeding
                         is a trick

 

you believe
                         that peace.
It goes in courageous dreams they don't
come, only the repetitions of what you
                         want;

 

don't want it she
                         was clung
to clung to move; suppressing the lust
of all things shiny mirrored
                         & split, left

 

fruit, wasting
                         on a window ledge.
Conjure me a better one, & I believe
I thrive upon it – juice heart all the while
                         rotting.

Copyright © Marianne Morris, 2004.