Storming in bed till morning, dying in my sleep,
my victim’s son eclipsing a pale yellow moon,
barrel smoking, while darkness unnumbs us,
I arise a living corpse, still anemic with regret —
exit wounds fresh as a newborn’s belly button.
The day carries on like any other, yet I cannot
shake the feeling that a piece of me remains
inside my pillow, my polyurethane headstone,
as feathers flutter past bar covered windows.
None of this seems real, but only because it is.