Any night with cops is bad.
I turn and say such platitudes as quickly come;
they, ever answering, tell me of dismal fates
drunk-tanks and rape.
Touch it and burn, I say, but burn
I must, and even so stand ready for horizon's flame
which may indeed be sunrise
tomorrow, though, is made of broken eggs and aspirin
dryly choked and muttered
it does not matter now
but I long for the promised