Eliot?

Eliot,

Will you pass me that bottle?
Yes, the one on the dresser
curved like a swan
at the neck
half-filled with a
nocturnal blue liquid,
that one?


The night spreads like a
bruise, seeping through
clouds, one after another,
And drips on to
the pavement, like tar
or congealed blood,
left over.


The square piece of sky
stuck in my window
crumbles like a
burnt love letter.
red-rimed at the edges
glowing, like a photograph
It stays.

A crumpled autumn clings
to the tire swing
in the park
on a single string
yellow-tipped grasses
swaying, wild flowers
lilac, white.


The park, the park, it haunts
my nightmares, dreams
have fallen asleep
Wind rustling leaves
whisper whisper whisper
Memory treads on
stolen secrets.

Shards of a piercing scream
gush through my veins
like a madman lost
trying to find his way
in a maze which
only has a way in
none out.


I have not slept in
a fortnight, Eliot.
The leaves that fall
linger awhile before,
before falling, but I ?
I don't, never, never.
Just fall.

So, hand me the bottle
will you, Eliot?
I'll pour you a glass
pour myself one
But only one of us
will swallow.
Shall we?