Goodnight, Always Goodnight

The cat sleeps and dreams
of green sickles in a field,
tiny blades twitching, itching
as cilia does, for want of a
breeze between the eyes.

Then I am a ballad, one of
sneezes, a piece punctuated
by coughs as the pills go
down, hot on the trail of
whiskey. I remember when
whiskey had killed me once,

I had shouted: I’ll kill you!
Raised those words white
knuckled for the hard star
between your eyes. Yet still,
you fell in love with her.

But I am tired now. I never
said those words; killing is
only for small insects,
because what is woman,
because what is man, there
is no truth in either song,

This sneeze finally manifests.
It blows me wayside for
another day, another weak
away from peace. The end
is never easy when I am sick,
ears ringing now. The cat
staring and wide awake

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