Dreams suck the measly essence,
leeching away thin blood,
a swallowy music’s sugared catch,
authentic and off-key.
Enchanted districts, sheltered
under the herald of poppy
memories, the span of years and
sorrow buckling their gold to blue.
Lit-up city challenges you,
invites you in to do your
frailest worst, make pert selection,
your credit nearly shot.
Victim of the charnel house,
condemned to daydream what was
left behind, incense forever
fanning lilac over stench.
Windburned faces, a pockmarked
bust of pyrite and porphyry,
ikons in shards and splinters,
the mounted and litter-borne
a sea of smiles, till someone
sparks an innocuous alarm
and present tense comes flooding back
like white migraine.