To The Men Who Would Murder

Always the plane crashing, the world
burned. Each day a fever
of the throat. What you have
done to my brain is jarred
it in morgue water. So I cannot help
you past the doubt of your waking,
say who was the monster
between the two grappling on screen.
There were these men who wished
for me to die and I agreed.

I pushed a fiery forehead on you and kept
silent about the plot. Perhaps now
was a murder. Perhaps you felt
fond when we woke. I heard
your murmur. You pawed the blood
in my chest. We crawled back
into the dream and the earth
coffined us. Say it was a comfort:
the man on a kill never came.