Clouds Submit their Whispers

I float outside your window on rainy nights;
the venetian blinds, their slats spread open
like the ribs of an antique fan; your shadow
rusting on the floor beside you. Call it a black
hole, or tunnel sucking me back towards birth.
I may have been the wing bone pushed off
your plate, or the rubber doll pulled out of
the rubble, but you are the hula-dancer
swinging his own noose. Your tantrums
are legendary. It is my voice that seeps
through windows, under doors. I am one
of the few blessed with an insipid whine.
Mercury tears slide down tattooed cheeks
your lard claws scrape at walls. I have seen
this before. I know, the ruins of an encyclopedia
are waiting in your bones. And when the clouds
shift and the moonlight settles on a face
more handsome than mine, you can rest assured
your cactus tongue will be bleeding in their throat.