1. They’ve arrived. One jackboot ahead
of the other on an amber moonlit night.
Head rustling in a black plastic bag.
2. Steel rhino skewed and crashed
with a head impaled on a tusk
like the martini olive on a toothpick
at the Holiday Inn lounge.
3. Weathervane creaks as it spins
for the witchwind has arrived.
Spiky the stubble of corn after the reaper
chews it down, harrow pares the neck.
4. Someday my music box will play “Edleweiss” by
itself at 4:20 a.m. Unlit candles will
glow for a granddaughter’s wedding dress
yet now hawk moths spiral the streetlamps
a hubcap is my monacle.
5. Bring on that last slake of Guyana juice,
some absinthe with wormwood thick and trippy
bring on decanters of vampire spit that’s Barbie pink
as eyes turn back red inside.
6. At 7 a.m. recovery meetings, there’s
redneck zen: “The ocean is not that big;
it’s just my boat is so small.”
“Between my ears is a city of chaos and I’m the mayor.”
“Everybody’s safer when I’m in here and not out there.”
7. Spirit hovers the scene. No getting back inside.
Ragged razor sirens fade. Streetlights are
purple hydrangeas, psychotropic pom poms
glinting tortured metal, emeralds of glass
watched by the thing itself
sitting like a bowling ball
behind a wet clump of fresh grass.