The Dead Thought

Some days he’d wake wearing a black crown

of roaches. Others the toilet water was frozen

over. Nights he slept on the roof telling himself

the stars are other selves living the life we can’t

though we inherit their sense of distance, though we

shine. He only wanted another vessel to empty into,

to be as important as a piece of bread is to the wolf

of a child’s hungry mouth. The heart is either lonely

hunter or lip with a fish hook but it isn’t both. He thought this

often. He thought of taking his toaster into the shower, of waking

up on the other side of storm, dipping his head into

the freezing toilet water and letting it freeze

around him. Of who would find him. How maybe

this would be the worst thing they’d see. How

they’d go on, and years later, at a funeral or golf, want to

mention something unique about the black eye of

heaven and all they would see is that glimmering:

twin circus elephants who still dance in clearings,

under moonlight, though no one is around to see.

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