Originally published in The Hamilton Stone Review #35
My left eyelid twitches
like a loose window shutter
in a stormy wind
or a sheet-winged fly
in spotlight.
Like all shadows, I grow
in the lunatic pumpkin’s
bathroom fluorescence
where it’s mirror aspect
catches my vision
and I’m stunned
by its buttery
thickness.
The moon reverberates
like a stricken gong
or the nervous look of a woman
and my spine could shatter
not from warm affection
but from its revolving
curves behind a robe
of clouds.
In times like this
I wish my mouth would
hang wide open but instead it
shrinks and hardens shut
and I get as full
as a one-lamp room.
And sometimes the lights
outside are nothing more
than holes chewed
into a shirt
by cats.
And this time I scratch
skin from my knuckles
harbor an inflamed heart
add a chemical to my color
attempt to respectably spill
and stumble towards
the wide automatic night.