Walking, awake, I dream of burning books—
razing all records, shredding my stories—
of being lost in a lustrous orange,
freely isolate, speechless and drifting.

Shall I continue as a greedy ghost,
slip in and out of shock, desultory,
ambling within an involute darkness,
intoxicated, a fretful wanton?

Should I indulge in oblivion, sink
into slickly potent, binding rot,
body dyed indelibly indigo,
the dusky color of a crushed iris?

Would you tell me what keeps you from screeching
into the starkness, at the reflection
of absolute absence in air ardent
and elusive, just barely breathable?