my bet is
that he and i still share
the same dreams
of thailand’s sweetest gift:
fields swaying red
in the breeze
diluting us down to
zero…
it bites into our sides
for attention
spreads us naked
on dirty sheets
begs us for mercy
with each probe and stroke…
oblivion’s gates of iron
open
beckoning to us
with silent screams
and whispers
in the night
just a little, just a taste…
its our poison
his and mine
it feeds on our weakness
sneaks in when longing
and relief cries out
for a necessary distraction..
our lust for poppy-fire
and its smallish
more available
oval flames
will kill the pain
perhaps its key
to salvaging the art
while it
murders us
in the process…