Pacing in the Parking Lot

The night bares its wooden fangs
And I put my nose on my shoe,
Importing steps, exporting saline,
Waiting for this generic evening
To immature into a puddle
I'll probably step in.
Are cloudless skies
Some divine gag
Meant to elicit
The midget inside me?
Pacing doesn't resolve
Into a rabbi's closet
And crying invents momentum
Equal to the tarot
In the stars
That grimace in my wake.
I feel capable of eternity
In these shoes,
In this place,
At least, the part of eternity
That lasts until morning,
When the sun snares the tear-
Entrapped me on the pavement.
Parts of me cringe
At the thought of day.
Give me my vampire
That sucks out my only life
Onto an asphalt platter!
I'm happy with without
When I imagine
The thickness of union
And its retreatlessness.
I like parking lots.
I need the speckled sky
Looming above, a black
Umbrella at a rainy funeral,
And the impotent answers
I shudder to attain.
I can't compose fortune
With ink and paper
And there's no harmony
For silence.
Maybe I'm too mute and deaf
To stand in opera
With one whose tenor
Reaches scales
Weighing out possibilities
Beyond my range to pitch.
If I find a tongue,
I'll hold on
And ask to be renamed
Something beginning with "her,"
Or I'll simply lie
With my head on the curb
And hope to dream
About climbing
To where there are answers.

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