On nights like these, when I am pulled by the sky
and the mist drags in from the marsh,
I take to the glittering, empty streets
and glide silently outwards---
slipping on the polished innards
of mashed berries.
There are no people here,
now, on nights like these,
in a town like this.
Only one small boy, stupid,
beautiful, standing alone,
haloed in mustard light,
punching a stop sign in the face
again and again,
painting the pavement
with his fist-blood.