by Brendan Sullivan

This lovely bonescape
is no place for children,
our grins too big,
screwed to the skyline
as if looking
for escape.

I no longer feel
the city
beneath my feet.
It has been replaced
by straw,
red and white damsels
dope-eyed with distress
who cannot make a sound.

Their hands are lilies
and I bear a mirror
on my back
so all
will call you fair.

You will not remember this
when you awaken –
not the man with the cat
and hungry in the hallway
or the hat
I once wore to dinner
or the wine we drank
from the brown jug

only the smell
of rabbits
squirming in a jar.