Hating it makes me breathe thistles and good luck charms
in broad daylight...
the supple damnation of frank discretion
sweltering in the fevered jeer
of introspection

after dark.

I loath the thing that brought you here but haven't the faintest idea...

laughing at my paranoia, you can drink pianos
and sever the cut        

from the knife

howling for constellations
between
the market
of the
blind
and the
free
light

you can count on something, haunting your nothing

and the clouds
leave you rain
enough

to cry.