when was the last time you howled with the wind
your voice curled upward,
jowls hadn’t formed yet,
will they ever?
will you roll out from under that lens?
the one slowly pressing itself down on you,
it’ll crush you in your sleep,

the last thing you’ll think, unfortunately,
is of its efficacy,
graceless, effortless motion of glass the weight of the world,
reducing you

but

don’t stop.
not until you fumble around in the bedside drawer,
(you know the one)
hardspine thick and full of fleshlights,
receipts, and ticker-tape fortunes.

within it, is the melted resin bracelet,
the one meant for dangling above a 3 am fire,
so its klein blue string burns,
slow, gentle flame against those wrists.

this is what it feels like.
there’s a reason the birds stir a little after midnight,
winged extras, lovers, and postal workers,
former mothers, pageant queens, and cannibals.
they’re here to remind you to rebuild that place within,

there’s a dock there,
fixed in a lake,
on it is our covered vessel,
its wooden frame forming a muslin tent.
sleeping, three minutes before sunrise.