Barbiturate Talismania

Philip Schaefer

This sadness, this halved skull 
filled with wildflowers. We arrive 
on a rickshaw of night clouds, 
winter air draped around us 
like a beached blue animal, wet 
and dry as silk. Cocoon gauze. 
What dies inside these chambers 
doesn’t matter. Some blood moons 
implode and become a miracle
of tossed snow without body, 
without obituary. We sew webs 
in dark attic corners. Our chests 
widen into lakes deep enough 
for someone beautiful to drown in. 
We let them. This is how desire 
shapes like a map: we disappear.