The flowerless months are the easiest,
when I can wither away and
retreat into nothingness,
safe from the sucking sun.
In the morning I stay in bed,
lying there, awake, right through
until noon, a skeleton arm
dangles towards bare floorboards.
My window is like a mirror,
a leafless tree outside my house
is reflecting me in all its decadence.
It comes alive at night, beckoning
me out into the dead world,
where I inhale and exhale ghosts,
walk over the crystal grass,
followed by two black cats,
deep into the town of the sedated.