What's Not

He saw his hands take

my neck as we had seen a robin

pull a worm from the earth, red breast

flashing, the wet, silent writhing barely

visible through the mist. He woke up

afraid to hold me.

​

I didn't say, but in my dream

his hands knew magic. They became wings

perfectly, delicately

pirouetting

until the spot on my ceiling

that for weeks was gray

finally shone.

​

Forget it, I did say,

I know what's real

and what's not.

Then I took the accused

to my mouth, knuckles deep

in longing while

above us, the dead bulb

swallowed light.

​

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/zdswlf/cringe/iz3sp8k/?context=3

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