Chamber-slops of disheartened rain,
and a crooked slit in the curtains exposing
a too-bright night sky-
jaundiced, yellow-violet,
bleary with cold and ice and dripdripdrip
sluicing the air between my window
and a valiant street-light;
and a rumbling vibration of frigid bluster
in the molecules of glass
making the window tremble.

There is something not-quite-right
about the splodges of iciness splatting
on the window-frame and the path;
there is something weird about
the sucked-out purple-yellow sky

and, last night, I raved silently in my sleep;
I raved on and on, typing messages to you-
and there was something not-quite-natural
about my bruised-yellow panic
as I mumbled and stumbled feverishly
in my searching dream,
my dream-self scanning for you,
like a sulfur search-light scraping the spray-painted sky,
pushing the peering beam against
the belly of the greenish sky
like an awful wound;
pushing
into the tender organs
of a bloated sky
bulging like a poisoned pup.

Now you are in the sky;
now you are in my organs.
The lazy sound of you is in the careless rain.
I can hear the branded leaves of the cherry tree
shivering goose-bumps in the wet.
You are in the yellow sound of that, too.
You are on this page.
Your flesh has been made word.
My flesh is thumb-marked with purple-yellow bruises.
My self has the eyes stubbed out of its newspaper clippings.
I am on your wall.