I run to my duskhouse,
a stained dream of glass,
and closing. . .
it smells of a city built in the rain,
of candle light in a goldenrod coffin.
It is the silence in the back of an angel’s attic.
We weathered the sidereal,
the tidal collapse of a thousand black-chrome
haunts, insects moving
in the shade, the lingering echo,
one exorcised saint, diminishing.
The duskhouse, the evaporation, another dead ocean.
(A car sidesteps past,
the color of glistening
Sepia-tone graffiti, hooks and chains
waving from the back of a butcher’s truck,
waitresses in fluorescent stanzas with voices
like a lost year’s death throe rattling out—
our lord, whose art is instant,
allow one more night.