I went to bed too early, so I dreamt vignettes all night
as if my history were made of shorts:
remixing trite with tribulation; splintering delight
with thorny iterations and retorts.

So I beheld the boredom of my youth,
saw marriages disintegrate again
and knew them ever doomed, because the truth
is each and both must hold together when
the little irks and nettles mass to irritate your skin
and you believe it isn’t fair to scratch.
I’m prickled by a rash condition as the dreams begin
replaying my minutia in a batch.