I wake one morning in a smoke-scented room
of windows and sparkling mirrors. Questions prism
through me in tangerine and rose while
people weave through my vision like fish. I ask
if anyone will burn a dream for me.
A woman with a stained bandage over her head
says, Our thoughts are right where we left them,
ready to melt into the mind of some passerby.
She plucks a translucent orchid from the vase.
The hanged man says, We never recognize
our own evils. Passion is the devil’s eye
and the source of life. No one can know
the difference. I ask him why my bones
have walked away from my body, why time
is moving sideways, but the moon slips
into his mouth and lights its candle.