New Endymion

She visits still too much, dressed in aromas of fir needles, mango, mold: I still get lost knowing she’s close, me not getting younger or more conscious. Sometimes I fantasticate I’m broad awake: her witchy presence waits for me to jump into her arms, but then she’s just an incoherent ache in sleep’s freaked scenes. I feel her frosty nitrogenous hands and wrists vaporing nooses around my head and feet and genitals, conjuring my drab hair into a party bowl of oiled, desirable locks. She makes me nervous, but what would I do without her? So long as I can’t have her, I want her and this alarming manic frequency. Then again, who wants to wake to change, its pulped, smelly suit of meat, drawing flies? My night-watch hot girl, moon-maiden, mom, let me get just one night’s sleep without regret, released from your foxy ticklish fondlings, your latest smell of windblown fresh-cut grass.