Consigned **** crows these hours...
graffiti sputtered on the wall,
capturing the nervosity of its vandals.
The overpass' heavy respiration of
fugitive traffic kept on.
Incoming evening made senseless
overtures...to a time and place that
knows death grows more libidinous as
light dims.
The long way home knows a longer way--
as the black of rats mend distances...
everything seems close enough to bump
into.
To stub the mind's light against...
and against...the subconscious and its
raw maladjustment.
An arm lost to its length, a foot lost to
its step...ingested and digested by hours
that cannot fend for themselves.
So dreams improvise, as eyes close
by degrees...a tonic to what refuses
unveiling.
Almost as if one stood hushed in a
darkened hallway...staring at a skeleton
key in its lock for hours.
Unremitting flashes of lightning creating
the illusion of its turning...the door
opening.
Thus, the tension of what's done and
undone--the visiting hours of apprehension...
of which the consigned **** crows.