Peep Show

It was a pain in the arm
that sharp woke me,

the taste of night tin
in the hollow of my throat.

I had shelled out my tokens,
and death
was undressing to the nines.

Fighting off the porno of dreams,
I fell from some sky

into the me-shaped orgy
of a wallowed mattress,
a tribute to erotic ice sculpture.

There were financial fears
and communications about aspirin.

The panic passed, but I moved
as if read by a laser beam
powered by the sun,

and I saw through my eyes
the measured terror
of a borrowed daylight.