out of the way. It knows that I tend to cling

to potential in the dark, that I am myself only

as I am beguiled by the moon's lunatic luster,

when the streets are so bare they grow voices.

The sun has lost patience with my craving

for the night's mass-produced romance, that

dog-eared story where every angle is exquisite,

and ghostly suitors, their sleek smells exploding,

queue up to ravish my waning. Bursting with

bluster, the sun backslaps the moon to reveal

me, splintered, kissing the boulevard face first,

clutching change for a jukebox that long ago

lost its hunger for quarters. It wounds the sun

to know how utterly I have slipped its gilded

clutch to become its most mapless lost cause.

Her eye bulging, she besieges me with bright.

So I remind her that everything dies. All the

brilliant bitch can do for me then is spit light

on the path while I search for a place to sleep.