Nightyard
The darkened schoolhouse has
given me this
thing to say:
the dry lips of a man part
as a candle is
lowered
through a glowing block of fat.
In the top there
is a hole
for air to feed in, whipping
the light. This
is a system.
I can feel the cold panting
inside my navy
sleeves.
Outside the butcher’s, a mutt
pisses, the steam
ascending
like a ghost after its name
has been
mentioned. But what
is this asking me to tell?
Our leaders
stride sienna
halls, their lilac-scented hands
flexing. In the
grass, a tiny
chant musters itself: I know
you. I know you. This is how
the first, classical speeches
begin. Then the
fat shifts, sings.
