From Plague Nights



​NIGHT 824

​
A closed tongue.
Incomplete
brawling of
books thrust in.
What does
waiting mean,
here, adrift
in the botanical
cycle.
I brush my hair
into the sweet
wood, that
my father felled,
now soured
to punk.
My engagements
meet me
in the eye, they
blaze darkly.
I’ve surrendered
wine after
wine after wine.