Benzene

It is the right time for hallucinations. Drowning in a sty, the sailor feels the ocean’s buoyancy. Dying in a web, the moth discards its wings and falls free. I wish something would put its hands on me, give me stronger poison and then stronger. The beautiful flotillas do not stop. Undying love drifts and delays. I am capsizing. Great joy lingers still. Nothing can be said for suffering. It is legible only to strangers and at great distances. It detests survivors. It drapes gun-carriages with flowers, lampposts with hanging boys. It is the right time for hallucinations, most nakedly of inmost west. Her death would be less tender now, dusted over with charity, a web of useless wings, a shallow sty. She gave me stronger poison and then stronger. I miss her. In the back seat of the taxi, dark breathlessness says “Hurry, hurry.”