sitting alone again
watching the day die
or, if not die, drift slowly
to sleep

thinking about nothing
except how the squid's ink squirts
over the eventide, the day's heat erased
by night's dense humid gum

hearing nothing but
the whispered thudder of
moth wings and the poisoned rat's
hot song from behind the cellar door

lighting a fresh hand-rolled
i pretend to float away, above this city,
out into the astral plane in a
cloud of patchouli effluvium
into the benign midnight
under the full sulfur-stained face
of the moon, floating alone
in the charcoal belly
of the night sky