The Camp Room
This bed is not mine, I did not read these books or tear the hole in the ceiling.
But I did break a glass, this is really my blood and the sun strains my eyes.
The broken bottom rolls on the pitch of slanted tiles,
The whole room hangs.
As if gravity were about to detach it
send it crashingcrack it openspill
its contents all over the lawn;
most of which, except for all the clothes,
are not mine.
Shedding a random trail of crumbs
of stolen pint glasses
There are people here; blueberries, birthday parties
and mournful accordions.
There are canyon trails that lead to secret lakesa dead snake in the road,
a brilliant white dome, a golden spire and fumbled attempts at chivalry,
a sharp pain receding.
There are mountains here
and there are monsters.