—for Alexis

Now it all seems off,
all wrong.

The gray clouds above you
turning purple. Your godly

régisseur turned up
a drunken tizzy, leaving

the set thrashed and the dialogue
stilted. You've got hackles

for a handshake and you've teased
the costume's stitching. Look up,

your narrator is an alloy pigeon
in the rafters

shitting anvils. The clack
and clang a song stuck

in your head, a song
for the panicked parade

which took a hard right
into the crowd

and came out a marching band
playing nothing but bones

of all the fractured you. Here come
the waves of hurtful wanting.

You've gone beneath the table
begging yourself for scraps

while in this house there is
a bed we call death. You must

quit these kidney stone
kind of days, love

the extraterrestrial pain
packed in your chest,

the stranger greeting stranger
forever inside you.