I love the night filled with its dry awakenings
Like my X, filled with dust and cobwebs.
Friends, that’s as lazy as it gets. The distorted
Railroad, the unsettling pre-depletion. Bucolic
Tides at the hospital, the murder that has already
Been tried. What I am equipped to do is different
Than what I have been called for. That’s a
Statement that cannot be retracted. There. The
Blood around the desert – we call this ‘sport’.
The pugilistic greetings in doorways, the grass
Underneath these snows, love holds its humid
Moments like a sailor who has never arrived.
The thick exile of this parabolic season, the
Way you used to talk to me, gone into mouse trails.
Photograph © Adam Conlon