Scheherazade
Tell me about the dream where we pull the bodies out of the lake
and dress them in warm clothes again
How it was late, and no one could sleep, the horses running
It’s not like a tree where the roots have to end somewhere,
it’s more like a song on a policeman’s radio,
how we rolled up the carpet so we could dance, and the days
were bright red, and every time we kissed there was another apple
to slice into pieces.
we’re inconsolable.
Tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us.