Saturday night and the dog is starving,
it’s ribs like scaffolder’s boards, barnacles on dead buildings
industrial like the split treads
of disused train lines that stitch together our haunted districts
so monstrously
like the seams at Frankenstein’s groin
I come up in the smoking area, buzzing like a fruit machine,
eyes whirring like the clocks on bombs,
hands trembling like a dousing rod
going twos on a random’s superking and everybody can smell
everybody else all at once,
our genitals perfumed and bandaged
like pharaohs under the boom of the police helicopter,
illuminating drunks in the dredged canal
again
Twilight grabs Pearson Park by its grass scalp
and drags it into the deep black ink of night
where the dandelion heads close and sway
like charmed serpents
and I touch you gently like a Ouija board,
neither of us sure whether I moved
or you moved,
and whether we are vessels of the house party
or of the grim supernature of city soil
covering our graves and opening our tombs to one another
like dark flowers
in night bloom.
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