The suffocating sun, the sky shutters drawn shut
your cold cold hands
drumming out in the dimming brightness
the moth
flitting like eyes
Back and forth across the bulb
Make shadows you could not know
The gloved erraticism of inertia,
the lucidity leaking from yesterday’s booze
Dried and dull, cigarette butts
Cough hazily as the night.
It would have been so much worse
You know just as well as I—
The moon, long and pale and immortal
The moon, long and pale and lost to you only
In the morning to come.
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