if the bends were a straight line

the air is metallic and lilac with a hint of lost toy.
my shiner boxing is elite until 4 am. 
and my pillow is the mumps, starstruck 
and bloated with unattended
sleep.
if the bends were a straight line
i would have a calvary of flat balloons 
in thin layers of blink as constant
as a widow’s bleak.
the sort of trumpets that crush the ocean
with a deeper song than an asterisk
at the the beginning of a woe
with a laugh track.
for a darling.