My Children Don’t Grow They Multiply

There’s nothing with which to begin but your own nothing.
Day’s agog
Repertoire of nonsense sunshine
after black bathroom stalls at the Rat
where my right hand’s stamped
& the intricate patterns of bootsoles glow
in silver graffiti sfumato.

I fall behind on a good time
I’ve stolen from my looks for poetry.
I’m sick of my costumes
delicate & posthumous
& furthermore I’m sick of this grail that doesn’t exist & is therefore
completely unknowable.

Through the dark hoping for light
& through the light waiting for night.