The Big Fish

A poem for David Lynch

At midnight, the earth shakes — 
the artist sets aside his pillow and finds
		a starscape 
to his great surprise.
In shock, he holds his breath, 
and spies between his fingertips — 
	a stellar fish — 
and all the secrets starlight’s strike
has written on its scales.
He sees with quiet clarity
and sighs  — 
it fills the world 
	with dreams.

Shining silver smoke and velvet hanging high
and gorgeous women lip-syncing
the same heartbreaking song
of open roads and second deaths
an end to suffering — 

until pure silence calms the wind 
still whispering in red curtains
the audience will never know 
that one last puff of fetid smoke
has caused his show to reach its end.
	Everything 
			is fine, they’ll say.  (1)
	It’s Friday once again.

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(1) It isn’t — it’s on fire.

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