The Dream Come True Is Still In the Planning Stages

The mini-series about Rome is too long.
           The beer is too short. A wasp on the porch
only wants to get in but does not, so perishes
           as best he can by battering his face into the
window more gruesomely than Hadrian hammering
           a barbarian’s skull, all its yolk running through
his fingers, thick with forgetting. This unglued
           evening I bore through the screen door, blurred
vision upon mesh partition onto the overgrown
           lawn at the twin sycamores and, not between
them, my absent hammock. The thief, run off, now
           cradled somewhere all his own with The Rise
and Fall of Rising and Falling spliced above
           his eyes. Something heavy enough to pin them
shut before the wind picks up. However, my hammock
           was only pretend, strung from invisible
netting like the rest of me, which makes us no
           less susceptible to thievery. And in its place,
all the thief has left me is everything,
           everywhere.