Bad Night, Bad

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.