Last Night I Woke Up at One in the Morning Believing I had Slept Through the Night

          by William Scarfone

Everything other than death
is a lie
of omission,
And when
I was tonguing your
teeth, I found a canyon
where your left molar
should have been.
A petal
plucked from the furrows
of a rose.
O canyon,
carved from the mountains,
serve as a monument

to the way I hold Her.

O keyboard,
O water flowing from the tap,
O pressure point,
O mother's hand on where it hurts,
(nurse's hand on where it hurts)
(doctor's gloved hand on
where it hurts)
O corpse,
O corpse,
O body in the casket,

serve as a monument
to the way I

Touch Her:
flesh reminds me
of metal heated to the point
of realization, rosy hues coaxed
out by flame.

My life as the snow
outside: buried under more
snow. You mean to tell me
that I just fucking fell out of the sky?

Four inches of concrete,
all that is between air
of 75 degrees/air,
of 20 degrees.
As humans, we spend much
of our lives
in boxes, uncomfortably warm.

How can there be
trust in a place
where the animals
don't even know
their own names.
How can there be love.

In a place
where even a bed
longs for a body.