From the Window
From the Window There goes the drunken moon on its way home. I drink the night like a body fallen to the cement of solitude. The rats of the garden warm, shelter, and comfort me with chewed kisses. Dawn smells like the bodies consumed by the waters that fell into the landfills of who I use to be. I do not know if I am or not who wants the new night the New Year this age-old time to end, and every yesterday turned into a song warming my night.