Hands like false teeth. | 1 |
Underneath balmy skin something | 2 |
itches, thickens. I dig and pull, | 3 |
carve with blackened nails, wrists to elbows, | 4 |
raking the belly of my forearms | 5 |
in rhythm to Scriabin’s grieving piano— | 6 |
| |
I stumble grossly beneath | 7 |
an emergency glow: neon blue | 8 |
half-light reflects off glassy pavement | 9 |
from long, dark, iron posts— | 10 |
miniature supernovas flicker | 11 |
at their ends, blanketing the moon, | 12 |
smothering night-rest and dew. | 13 |
| |
Now, this meditation | 14 |
crackles and splits like gasps from | 15 |
an original transistor radio. | 16 |