8
Hydromorphone
by Salvatore Difalco
Do you love that open window
blowing in blue air,
that white light
splintering the blinds,
that pillow rushing
down on your
blacked-out eyes?
When little hairs arise
on the back of your
neck, does the mouse
under the bed
also feel the fear,
or does it feed into
a beady menace?
When that phantom
smile of yours
alights like a fairy
on a branch
of Millefiore
will you be more
companionable?
When honey
in the tea does not
sweeten the evening
listen to the bats
in the courtyard,
what they click
between drips.