Nothing. Not REally.

signs and symbols
on eyelids drooping
behind a paned glass window
unpained, and pending closure--
these are mine. lights
flicker on. flicker off. across

the street, it is lonely tonight,
damp with the mourning
the sky must be cradling
in its burgeoning brow.

a monochromatic dinner
too bright to eat today,
departs from its steam,
while a patchwork lazy-boy
holds me up in front of it.

everything is backwards today,
some things are flatlined. other
things, in shadows and shades
just beyond the reach of the visible
spectrum, dry-heaving their drama.

sleep is more catatonic, and dreams, those self
same images blearing across the day’s ellipsis,
though only on beta waves and spindles.

static crunches both the screen of the television
and the lanky veins that should bulge somewhere
under my copper-plated skin.

limbic phenomena fails me now,
as the calm solipsism of dementia settles in,
and i’ll stay behind this window in the pearled
armory of my pupils, with that ancient luster
dissolving, and letting logic dry up,
decrepit and
arrhythmic.