Dream the dream called dirty
laundry & dress me
as you like: knee-high
stockings of a call girl, feathered hair
of an Indian boy pulling
arrows, his bow strung.
Remember: point to shoot.
Tonight, I pull your body
taut from the quiver, watch it fall
apart in lost fletchings. Lilacs
sprout from the small of a statue’s
back as it bends away from us,
grasping for the hand of a friend
whose body, once handsomely
defined, has worn smooth & round