Bad Night, BadKirsten Kaschock
Each star hangs on a separate bolt of silk and by a different name claims the universe. I have never been so much a reptile. A mother inside a Matchbox drives her son’s hand across linoleum. Unable to sleep—she tosses others from sleep. Dreams are narcotic—and should be remastered before a next batch kills. Nothing doing nothing. That’s what’s wrong with 3AM. 4AM has other priorities, gambits. Gothams. 4AM can kid itself it’s morning. Though that’s just the birds.
Kirsten Kaschock Read Bio Author Discusses Poems
|©copyright 2004-2022, No Tell Motel. All poems ©copyright the authors.|