By Jack W. Dawson.
outside
we stay up
gay-bar late
as creatures do
fixed grins
in moonshade
air is clot
syrupy
night-chilled
so
we turn the shed
to furnace
vatican white
smoke
is pouring
on the lawn
stage bright
solars in the grass
we go down
to the house
counting lambs
chanting madness
but choose instead
to sleep
