A cerulean sky lantern
is floating slowly through hell

I turn my head to the left and become aware
of the ticking of the wall clock

It strikes me
that it is eerily similar
to how you still must have believed
yourself to be happy
some twenty minutes ago

The curled up dog is dreaming
the morse code of a
silent run
transmitting through its paws

As I recall your questions
would come down as lightning
or like used up poetry
that carries enchanted flowers
without leafing out

The clock strikes another hour
and asks for forgiveness
it suggests our attempts to escape
were arrows across the sky
purportedly some got stuck
in the dense, wooden clouds

Then I look back at you
in your fog coloured underwear
and butterscotch nightgown laden with
bronze coloured stains
and the clock turns silent again
the lantern's ablaze with
belief
and the arrows are trembling