Again I wake
half way through the night
as one who first notices the music
on the final rise of the last resolve.

So I walked
swimming in a flow of existence,
being tossed and caught
and so to be tossed again,
down alleyways of my own bent psyche.

And to the bus stop,
where a man with a cigarette
told me Nirvana is a trailer park.

Past the boy selling rosaries
and the yard with the pink flamingo,
Down highways dripping with mercury,
through cities where the mannequins walk.

Then to the floor,
when the feathers twist my spine,
that in this blue nocturnal
I may blink awake again.