This the sort of night.

This the sort of night
where words fly down
in parachutes of water
blooming hard into sweet
phosphorous oceans,
no trenches of sound contained
therein.

This the sort of night
where my face is hot
and my skin shrinks
jives
and throbs
under the docks of sex.

This the sort of night
where against my will,
which is wilting
I wait,
an ever penitent
reader of looks that must
carve the map of time, and
crave
the route of lips.

This the sort of night
that shouts angles
in the curves of vowels
and the sort of dark that
screams at light to make it’s
get-away
in trails of rotten color.

This the sort of night
where I read out loud
the books you taught me,
the rough-hewn letters
like sand on the sheets,

I practically scream the
words of making,
I yell the ‘come-home’ cry
out into the widowed stars.