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Seth Peterson
On the Disassembly of Dreams
My wife goes missing on a hike, then
my kids, then the lambent stars & Saturns
on their ceiling, the laptop, the smartphone
& miscellaneous gadgets, TV, a half-eaten jar
of peanuts, sad ties drooping in the closet
by the moth-eaten shirts & shoes & dresses,
which also disappear, as the shingles unhinge
& fling toward the horizon, the sheet rock
turns to snow & the studs tip over like a train
of dominoes, with the last one falling at my feet.
But it doesn’t end there. I’m disfigured,
blinded by the blistering sunlight,
with a sinking feeling that I’ll have to start
all over again, unforgivably late,
& not a soul on Earth will recognize me—
Damn, my therapist says, that’s bad alright,
closing his notes like a coffin.