In my dreams I wrestle third-grade tulips
and scrawl midget graffiti on opaque walls
while thistle down falls on Blyton mornings.
I strangle amaranth guilt, stroking cats
that aren’t mine, decapitating dolls I know
I’ll only lose. I braid hopes, folding
in shadows like ribbons as maroon
lace simmers on the cliffs of my id.
I tattoo forbidden fruit because
I am a pirate of the night, written
by Washington Irving, turning
teeth into Swiss bank accounts.