: 3 p.m. mercies of high tea, high
holy days, and midnight illegal smokes
on a balcony. By the slipperiness of our dead
and a streetlight we’d shoot out if it
weren’t already shot. By a black Mercedes grinding
into a wrong gear. By Out-of-the-City one day
and Into-It-Quite-Deeply the next.
Traveled & trafficked, holed up and let loose,
we’re here as fireballs, there as tapped-out beats
on a telegraph. By Nothing To Do vying with
Everything To Do. By special dispensations,
no-guts no-glory, Quaaludes, a ménage a trois,
and stories we’ve messed up and passed on. By stars
loose against our tight flesh. By rowing toward
the end of a dream. By vast black harbors, and before them,
by the vertical spirit slamming into the horizontal sky.