these pathetic ways i hurt myself, still,
the eternal apprehension of death
an excuse to keep myself up all night.
i spend the hours admiring the city's private spill of stars,
immediate enough to tongue, the reflected street lights
in the rainslick on the pavement,
light
a nocturnal emission.
to care for oneself is
terrible, unsettling
as the bone-husband
of Persephone.
biting down on the seed,
juice
exploding
as if juice were light
from the microcosm
of the street, just as inept
as this body
at keeping
dry,
and as
inept
at rest.