last night

The moon buoyed in the sky’s black, we poked at it
like twigs, falling short on the ends of our feet

Cold burn in my nose my eyes;
we pulled the neck tighter;
the taste of a spice rack
which was the trees rocking;
sloughing off their sex,
champing the awful smell for us

Somewhere far was Knowing
and it smelled lovely & celibate

There were mushrooms
in patches—we did not eat
but still smiled too much

Around wood burning,
retelling Goosephalus,
your edition was in Braille
and probably for Communists—

Inside the cover you had written:     
     “Angst in your pants” in permanent ink
     and I still don’t know why that’s funny;
The liquid marshmallow of your wit is lost to me

There was that cruel game of cards,
the boars who took the food & dirt we lost

We won’t hear the land under all concrete

A shriveled Paradise
for razing that dollar—

Oh, Metropolis,
je t’aime until the city of lights.