12 AM

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12 AM

Shooting through the kitchen,
square tiles
under my feet declare
glassy hell arcades.

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 holy permanence?

Have I once belonged
somewhere other
than on a copy of a copy
of a rewrite?

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

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.