this unruly night
is macadamized on the wall,

whit its bare-knuckled steel mangled
to a ferruginous glaze of rust.

the dismal kiss of
      cold on the unclenching fist of the dark
is irretrievable in the grass,

soon, glass-faces will break as my simian jaw
was once shattered by a scuffle in the twilight-bells
      of recess.

  it is like the night dances and in awe,
struck by some rude awakening, we sit forever
  emptied of beauties.

even the flesh rouses to startle the reared relation
   of calla – its hot-flush widespread of petals
  thought I am given always, an intone of forgetfulness.

   such pure lunges and gyrations – we all have
spaces to cross latching us in total placeness like
    black hooks impinging voices to a shriek,

  yet surely they go off wandering in sunsets
waning in the formless crepuscular, waiting the night
  to pour stringencies,
  
    small-breathed furies futile
        like arsenic.