Ghosts in grey drift a room crossed lob
away, now devoid of eyeballs cloudy clear,
it's a creaky door that denies a greasy knob
not easily opened by the red pulsed fears
flowing down blank corridors, what the fuck,
into the freshness of a stem cut bouquet
standing on a high ledge and looking up
to freeze a vertigo season where lilies lay.
Each fleshy moment passes in pedestrian motion
because of thrusts remaining safely asleep
and the question never becomes a question
of pulse when the pachysandra slowly creep
over cooked rimmed orange edges on ground
to throbbing at dawn for a Quixote in clouds.