After Munch's "Death of Marat"
the space between him and the table where
various spheres lie. Is it just an illusion
of blood and lust? A confused dark gesture
in the contour of an expressed nightmare?
She sees herself: her golden hair turns red
like the insides of a body. The man swims
in the obscure psychology of imagined
boundaries. Suggestions in the intimate
shadows render their violent appetites
on linens, cover them in the warm life
of terrible intercourse with the beloved.
But who is to say if the confessed scream
reveals anything beyond what we dream?
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