Wednesday, October 12, 2011


The daylight life seems to be shrinking,
shriveled. Cancered thin.

We live nocturnal,

raccoon children with owl instructors.
I shot bullets into the sky as acknowledgement
of sexual conquests.

The stars get headaches; envy streetlights, neon.
No replaceable energy efficient bulbs up there.

I stopped under a bridge without my shadow.
Blizzards swept it off to float in Colorado.

There’s twenty-four hours of darkness in Alaska.
You get paid to live there.

Snowflakes landed on a drunk’s thumbprint.
There are a lot of them up there.
Falling fast without guidance.

There are litters of them here, too.
Equally unique, in chorus,

they fade from memory.


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