In darkness at the middle
of a fist, she turns

to him and asks. Perhaps
too slowly, he escapes.

Word fragments in the secret
unity of his mind, rhyme

unsteadily, a maze
meandering like thoughts.

He imagines walking
distance away from her.

Europe, and thick oil paint.
He imagines a wedding of cold

storage. Her dresses given away
to the Salvation Army.

On their lawn, chattel
arranged for strangers.

In motion, lilies ripening
like blood. With lofty power,

he imagines carbon
monoxide. A lunatic, now,

he dreams of pitching himself
out the window while Sinatra

sings "All or Nothing at All."
Her grown children, abandoned.

In an instant, he knows he is
capable of doing all these things

and more. Above his head, saintly
thoughts sway him to bursting.

There is nothing he can do.
Out of god's blessing

and into the sun, he rises
from the bed, not alone.

His body, a locked room.