Amend the night and listen to it buzz.
Butts of cigarettes rest in the ashtray,
coax the sweet dampness of the equinox
deep into their filters.
evensongs, footnotes of the highway’s rev,
found coiling around the day like kudzu,
gagging the ultraviolet quiet out.
Here is the still, collective unconscious.
Jargon to honor the holy Tsaddiq.
Kneel before him, your life in a bent heap,
legs tucked beneath you.
molded by your lips, like light, forbidden.
Neither the moist night nor the distant hum
of tires against charcoal asphalt will
puncture these hours with reprieve
They mourn hollow
The sigh of a revolver.
Quarantined behind a nicotine hajj,
resting on wicker, you become fungi,
sprouting and glowing like foxfire in lush
under a fingernail moon, the wind’s deaf
vex will halt at the beauty in collapse.
Wound around the neck of the stars, a cord.
Xenial constellations, zodiac
Fed by a diaphanous web,
zipped into traffic.
The drone of magma.