The rush—

–like float of blackened flight,

a latticework nightmare

where wings pound against stars

in ceaseless struggle, sighing

and rising, silhouette night-shape

on the lunar body smiling.

this hollow, this echo

(the raven’s sharp call; poignant)

pounds my backward temples,

who bellow obscenities beneath

the streetlights,

their mocking buzz awash in the light

of the moon.

I’m drunk on my breath:

this motionless black noise

of desirous, stinging capture. Image


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