Nightly recollections, or unperturbed hours of shame. Twenty Hail Lucifers, sour fragments lodged in me. Head in the clouds, feet pressed to the treebed, throat dry, dry for milk.
It is the hour of sonar, the hour of bats.
Cubs squeaking, circling the moon.
Through the fall and banishment from my heaven,
the sun will invert it soon —
dousing me in the adult pee
of guilt.
