I don’t know how the beetles got in.Landed like plums rolling off a cloud,soft erasers inside their mouths,my dreams were first to go. Siphonedout via bullet holes, like honeybeessmoked out their hive, chorus of blacklines, burned thick and dark, gildedgrill marks, hexagon honey stuckto their eyes, there are six sidesto loneliness. Ballistic blowfly,visions of parallel lives, you hide,what you hold. Blind to the brilliance,I died with my eyes at an angleto my skull. Said I’d be right back.Nevermore. Mounds of dirt, oh ants,no one I love, should find me here.Never had I felt the hardened wingsof sudden flight, mid-run, doorturned cold-angled cliff. Duck-duck,goose. Pluck a hole in the circle’s skin.Black rip in a bag. This is where memoriesturn corners. Finger tucked around a crescentmoon, light splits and splices the room,disconnects the dots, castsa constellation onto sheetrock.