that blooms

This is a continuation of my current experiment, rewriting Anne Rice’s The Witching Hour as poetry. This poem is from Page 8 of the Knopf First Edition hardback.

Strange word gleamed white against
the true state of time.
I was anxious to change, to reason with the
scrawl of delusions hanging from reality.

Wake up: There’s nothing there anymore.
A routine of complete exhaustion,
perspective a writhing tangle that
blooms something blackened and sticky.

Ancient records of dust.

I was going to run, foot pushed into crushed grass.
No one noticed.
Now, I just keep from getting worked up.
I imagine tomorrow, see all the way through
age and trees and contradictory urgency.