Dream

The rotting stars are grommets of fire
that pierce the beveled sky,
projectile stelae of burnished light
hurtling across the slant plane of space,
obscene bites in the firmament that radiate
white electric pain. For space itself
rends its own substance in a brilliant theater,
unfolding and unfurling
the sordid drapes of its passing life.
The way the air wastes is lyrical,
a sweetwater oracle of deadly shine
that slashes the earth with cutting meteors
whose song is like that of stammering fish
dumb from oxygen swill.
The atmosphere is no dam, for the air drops
decaying particles into my breath,
blending with my life
the friction of its flaming demise.
But I feel only the appropriate kiss of goodbye;
I am alight in falling auroras of tenderness
that settle into my sheets
like  rosettes of pale chiffon,
and the heavens’ unmaking
is the crucible of my undoing.