Sycophant of the Grotto

I make nightmares
with the palms of my hands
place them over my eyes
and carry them like
totems

I carry them like freedoms
that are violent
i carry them like
futures
that do not exist

I carry them like
my children
that will die

I carry them,
sure of their nudity
and sure of their
stubborn
rise into my
stomach

the way a
kiss pollutes
Us.

I carry many deserts
and many lips
that stay frozen
on nights
falling
into moon-rises.

i carry my ego
with clusters of sugar
and borrowed guilt
to drown them
slowly
in bathing water

I fuss over
things that
have broken previously
and are under the arrest
of public gaze

But still, I persist
in carrying
things silently
even as my nightmares
make me ill

They have eaten through my palms
since sometime

I think i must wash these
things from
my routine.