Mirrors paint the town tonight,

And the sad funhouse-

Where I kind of pace real slow,

In that backward way, where no one knows.

The branches waltz and sway,

In developed taste,

Sky as black as day,

The pressure tied to love, rearranged.

Always, always open.

Pulse’s,

Always, always open.

In dried creekbeds,

In the voices telling me, listening,

In the reflection of skyscrapers,

In the ghosts of 743 N. Elizabeth, clamorous,

In the wine and scotch bottles, emptied, on the counter.

There is a pattern on the shelves,

Wooden bells.