The night is in bloom,
and the day has fled the scene,
My suit of flesh is hung up and away
on hangers that cut and poke.
Night noises too, cut and poke.
I own the owl's eyes as my vermin
nerves burrow beneath the covers to escape
perfect predator sight.
The black night, the black Dahlia.
The black pen.
Saturday, December 4, 2010