Over at the café, we are alone
at sharing our own thoughts, and hot coffee
easily drifts towards our tongues. This is the time
that the bats replace the birds. And we hear
crickets call one another. Tonight,
the moon is high yet huge. Though
the thought of a celebration: a cheesecake
two cups of coffee, friction, we ourselves take
the knives, slit each other open. Hear
our hearts beat the same anthem
we hear every night. So we let the blood
flow from these hummingbird chest,
ooze to the pavement like honey. It
glints against the moonlight, a river way
filled with rubies. And we can be sure our insides are
finally healed. For the demons had
set foot against our will
and into the wild. This, indeed, calls for
a celebration. Friction,
we let it speak.