It’s a hole, a spot, a sentimental
Holier-Than-Thou lifting
of the coffee mug; pinky curled out, green
as the vine.
Men and women as
long curving branches in the dark,
billows of shadows along the wall it’s a
nightcap for the
lonely,
for the ones who dip their heads into
inkpots. It’s a
garbage dump, clattering glasses and heels the
toes are tar-ridden and the fingertips
prevailing,
scratching
the tables and the longitudes and latitudes of
high pitched hails, drumlines,
hoorahs and hallelujahs as the moon
tips up, her horns
piercing all the eyes cast downward into
steaming cups,
Jupiter hands creaking towards a hearth that’s an
orange ghastly on the ground. A
heavenly ruckus,
all the talk, all the yuks; all the
cats of the Witching Hour fussing about
sour milk,
dead poets,
rushed romance,
bad politics, nudes and fine art.
Hedonists of the stone chamber they dwell on
shunted sunlights like Beasts of Burden who have missed
their Ark. A turn-of-phrase
is how they meet
their god.