He wakes at gunpoint in his dream, heart beating
about the head & ears. He tumbles down a well
where cracked walls, wheezing, circle him; the lid
clangs across eclipsing sky.
In this womb, he thinks about the bereaved,
how they line up at ticket counters looking for their own
way out, their chance to whisper goodbye
into someone’s borrowed phone.
Because Epiphany loves a well, because it storms
the half-glimpsed memory, it rises to meet
the sliver of eclipse that burns eyes wide awake,
while the body keeps on drowning.