Poem for Michael O.
appearing at the tops
of towers
over the scrape of shoes
at five in the morning
the drifting moon like an eye
I walk the neon coast
and greet the last angels of night
the ovens like the cheeks
of fat men
and eggs spilling an orbit
of grease and frying meat
light shivers a needle
of cold grinding in the tube
of the lungs
food or air
what matters
is keeping it down
loving it
and in the dark
squat among tallcans
and shit like a river
once at sea
I saw your face
blinded with light
across the sky