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A big mean animal, the night,
keeps turning
me with its horny toenail
like some kind of sausage, I offer
one side
to the flame and one to heaven
or: this slow burn keeps spinning
its web of night ever lightening
toward morning. With one eye
always open and the other
always open, what can he
imagine by way of warning?
The whole thing, you think,
has a bite to it, but
anaesthetized, snorkled, harbingered.
That’s the ticket! says the one
who arrested him. Pull over, walk
this line, breathe here, no, here, no, here, no, here. . .
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