Sorrow minded and trickling down a hallway,

he fits leather into linoleum; sterling rubber on its way to gold.
There’s a purple on the fabric and





the night is a centrifuge







circling and circling and circling.

(Stars pressed to the sky:





bugs on a windshield.)
Volcanically skirting by tar and houses,





the yellow is closing in:

(schools of underwater canaries





nipping at my wings).
But now the water’s moving downward and






the birds are beak-up.


Nights like these have a habit of splitting,







(layers upon layers upon layers)
Beyond the grass and the glass and the bulb and the blood








there is a fire.





You just have to spin a little faster to find it.