I pass the moon, walking on burning books,
silverfish mustaches twitching as a gondola full of stoplights
glides past in the darkness, carrying its payload to a clique
of newspaper writers, their stern upper lips quivering,
whispering curses into the brisk atmosphere of August’s nuclear future.
Falling from a bowler brim, tipped to
a dime store mannequin, an extra 20 bucks for the existential crisis
swirling in curdled orange juice,
I can’t exit stage head left
until the last candle burns, spilling over the disembodied mouth screen,
reminding me to check my breath against the alley stink and
brush stars from my shoulder,
as I bask beneath the watchtower you wrote into this future, before
turning back the sheet and crawling into bed.