I sift the dumpster for a carpet under
the bloodmoon because my floor splinters
like Pangea and birds sing in the walls while
I shower. March gales shouldered a pane out
of the attic window, so I listen to it writhe
upstairs, a substitute weathervane. At 2:15
each night a scream slides up the riverbank,
a plaintive lament mutating, lifting to a shriek.
I think it’s a child.
If it stopped, I’d miss it: it’s my whippoorwill,
primordial, singing that someone is lonelier than
me. I chalkmark the walls where the sunlight
stretches each hour, but this sundial alters.
The last girl I kissed tasted of morphine: tracing
tongue fractals on her numb gums, praying for
Sunday to come, but it’s always Tuesday here
and the tomato soup is boiling over.