questions

Would you still love me if I was a bug but not any bug, a cicada, a few buckling ribs of a viola, and wouldn’t you like it if my bones were runed with music and my wings, too small to bear us both, too thin to shade your eyes from the manifold skies of a thousand dawns, so oh, would you still love me if I was Tithonus wilting forever against the sun, Tithonus in a morning field of lavender, Tithonus the cicada.

For this in us is nothing but fantasy, and all fantasies are written in new ink and goose feather quills (fiction is always new; old fiction is biography) and would you still love me if I was false, if my lungs ate imagined air and my lips were no redder than a metaphor, would you still love me if I was only a dream, only one product of the subconscious water wheel spinning its loom on the Lethe, would you still love me if I am lost in thought, for I’ve worn myself thin with melatonin, and anesthetics recall your eyes in a field of phosphenes, of porphyrous twigs, 

I am falling, have fallen, down the winding chute to Wonderland, and in this oubliette I fret on flowers and fiction and songbugs. I live in the empty house of a rabbit or rat and listen above every night for soft and flaming whispers.