So this is the other, invisible world now
to you.
Early leaves blowing spreading green

flames —
how strange everything looks.
My room looks different and I am afraid of it.

A double-barreled blast of 40mg per nostril later
the universe has turned into a name, the morning light
a look of love. A white rose glows there

on the glass tabletop, filling the room
with the scent of far away and close
to inaudible voices, high, children’s,

issuing from its whorled eary depths
like a fading phone connection.
What can I do but walk toward it?

I cross the room for several years with grace
and ease I never knew, sidestepping in time
the avalanche called You’ll Pay For This, resisting

at a star-filled canyon’s lip attempting
flight, arriving at the bed at last,
lying down and like you entertaining no need

to rise again, to move a hand, or write
a single word.

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