Eyelids

Feather black,
curled, flexed hairs 
grabbing at the empty light and
Dust, what image would you like to see tonight? 
What difference will it make 
to The sour, sweet, bitter and liquid 
scenery which will flow and flow indifferent.
The spectacles with which you must see the 
Black stench enfolding 
every landmark you have mapped 
throughout your long yet
short experience. 

Not every scene is set the way you’d like, though, 
just as there are the azure, pale days, 
when you will be joyful of the function of opening, 
not longing for a tight, bolted fall of the curtain,
a negation of the splintered-glass floor,
the noise in the kitchen,
a gun on the sofa,
and the life you thought you had found, 
crawling out of your nose, 
like that old, familiar affliction.