The night is populated

by Rorschach blotches

The day is a blind spot

The sky is a hollow-eyed watchman

Rumours travel rivers and paths

Migraine falls out like radioactive waste

The inner workings

of ceilings and roofs

are interfaces

between people and crows

Metabolism bubbles and growls

through intestines and marshes

Even Herbert von Karajan is a pastime

All you see of god

is his dwindling back, hunching off

The mirrors are all covered

Fighter jets are scrambled,

the stations manned,

Nebraska silos smoking,

the fingertip of anger on the button,

breath kept on hold

Now is a very small place

Your looks are all over your face

No one can make out your gaze

You're one of the last of your race