Madrigal

The rain had its purple fingers at my temples
and was massaging me to sleep.
I am enveloped in the night like a chrysalis.
My dreams are the dreams of pupa.
This is the madrigal of Spring—thoughts that
are no bigger than a hairball in the bathtub,
half a cucumber
sweating out its last silver wishes
in the fridge…

The contents of an old drawer
provide clues to the death of the afternoon:
a book of stamps, a tooth, a bunch of
weeds…a hollow exoskeleton.

I wake up on a mattress that is a fossil.
It rose out of the bedrock.

Madame Mothheart has blackmailed me
into this.