Walking off my lament,I fumble with the path towards home,wander and graze the tennis courtlike the close shave of a bullet.Sprinklers high as indomitable fencesspray the concrete down. Night bankrupts the sky of its yellows,keeps only floodlights as a loanaround which a parish of gnats swarms and staticslike a clipped nerve.Monday, so bacchanalia are free…

A debacle with ice and a shortage of rum—phone calls rose through the elevator chute like steamas courses played tag with the oven.Doused in alcohol and set aflame,from the bright holiness of Easter morning only the moon survived,the rest succumbing to midnight char we dirtied our evening wear with. A meeting of the minds—theorists, poets,…