By Andrew Unruh

A burned out light in the sky,
its life-spark lost to the aether,
throws shade across its hollow-eyed
desolation tenement lodgers…

Telephone wires above are sizzling like a snare
smoking in the supernatural darkness,
floating across the tops of cities
reproducing flowers of green-gold, red-gold and fire…

The cinders of psychic respiration flow on
within you and without you, as we lay
by the gnarled steel roots of trees of machinery.