11:30 p.m.

I forgot what it was that was said. It’s the time of
the day that leaves the unrealistic summer smiles.

I can’t identify with anything anymore. Well, maybe the burn of
the television’s sporadic light that steals what was meant.

I think I should organize a decampment from the poisons,
the repentant hangman’s gallows committed within the county lines.

I’m drained of will,
a water doused sock hung from an isolated voice.

I don’t know what else there is to say about the
assignation of the sun’s methamphetamines.

I float, an uncradled cat clawing tomorrow like
a piñata del diablo strung above volcanic eruptions.