12 AM

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12 AM

Shooting through the kitchen,
square tiles under
my feet declare
volcanic full stomach.

My feet so cold
grow numb
upon this petrified fire
farrago.

Salted honey almonds
and cherry rum
in obsidian casks
incite the tables
of seized earth
around me.

Must I possess
this chance permanence?

Have I ever belonged
somewhere other
than on a copy of a copy
of a rewrite
of a light’s light
er?

The lampshade above
my bobbing shoulders
an overturned fruit basket,
mournfully hollow,
in this now sundown
my synagogue.

We’re only as I as what we trace.

Phone, cordless and cold,
in hand, I say
to the here
and yet so faraway dark:

I’m not hungry,
I just want to reach you.
I am nothing but ghosts
In this place.