The sun goes
behind my head and raises
wet hairs hot
fingers praying into my eyelids.
The forecast called for
night, the way she does every day.
Rain, low talking
behind the face of the moon.
Oversteer into dreams,
consciousness smoking,
squealing, peeling away in blisters of
spent rubber sighs.
Through the slats
the window frames black
blinking blue white
that kisses my nose
in thimbles of fanned mist
swallowed nearly
in the thick of swollen tongued
Summer thrush
and watching through my cut eyes
light strike earth over the darkened tree line's rise,
the ground outside me still dry
I try to ignore the question.
