the secret life of ms. prism

you are drenched in it
commensurable beauty
a haunting, an apparition
each time you come by to tuck me in
i awake w/ the same
confusion empty empty sheets.

you must exist—the seats displaced
the resting place of cadaver bottles—
my confusion settles, you are not
a spirit but a true man
—an honourable man
amidst the confusion
but ‘what is good’ and what is bad
and how long will we ask
each other this—
knowing monogamy doesn’t really
exist, knowing that the
nice nice individuals we appreciate
(but could never be)
tuck their
gently laid perspectives
between comforters
at night.