The Trance Lies Dead but Writhing

An old storybook
I purchased from
the Internet
sits on the table
encrusted with
trails of wine,
salsa, and crumbs.

Its black cover
is anew but
the light glints
are different--
it could be nothing
less than a galaxy
of colorful forms
we cannot hope
to understand.

A good level of
guilt rests within,
upon its pages
of heroes that
we cannot see
from the couch
while the book
is closed.

The font spelling
letters white
and sharp is
both civilization
and its hollow,
earthly opposite.

What went on up
the creaking stares?
What went on down
below, bombs
rocking the blank
television
three days later,
when no one is home,
but the light is
still on, the water
running--