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.

Idée fixe.

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.

The adagio

like dusk.

Quarantined behind a nicotine hajj,

resting on wicker, you become fungi,

sprouting and glowing like foxfire in lush

turbulent splotches.

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

yellow.

Fed by a diaphanous web,

zipped into traffic.

After ripening

The drone of magma.