Bruce Boston

In the fractured dreams
of visionary wastrels,
artists swallow
their mercuric pigments
and die with
rainbows on their lips.

In the sere dreams
of spinsters,
the hooves of satyrs
scar the polished hardwood
and clack
against the bed rail.

In the sequential dreams
of mathematicians,
snipped and measured,
the incipient perfection
of the multiverse
is resolved
in spheres and gradients,
future trajectories
are mapped to the microsecond.

When night descends
upon the city
its torso consumes
both steel and stone,
its great underbelly of eyes
pierces every shade.

Bound by sticky dream webs
we wait spread-eagle,
arms open,
thighs pitched
to the proper angle.
Vulnerability anticipates
the spider's bite.
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