Deconstruction XIII

William James

In my dreams, I am blissful. Eyes
            pressed to the moon like windows

crafted to shine brightly
            in the Manhattan sky. Birthed

in a garden of light. Amber hallways.
            Held tenderly by the dying sun.

But my tongue is always a monarch
            of grief. A ghost in white leather

gloves, fingers pressed in frozen yellow
            fire. Mouth full of sharp teeth and blood.

How I am taken with want. An apathetic heart
            crippled by an ugly restlessness.

My breath weak. Bitter salt setting
            in my bones. An ocean of granite,

a break in the curtains, as I find myself
            buried in a concrete tomb.

            NOTE: All words used in this poem taken from the album Sunbather by             Deafheaven.

William James is a poet, aging punk rocker, and train enthusiast from Manchester, New Hampshire. He’s a contributing editor for Drunk In A Midnight Choir and the author of rebel hearts & restless ghosts (Timber Mouse Publishing). Follow him on Twitter @thebilljim or at www.williamjamespoetry.com.