the shed behind the old
farmhouse is where
the conditional self
burrows waiting
for sunset
feeding on
feet of passersby
on their meek imprints

waiting for claw tracks
of stars the misty
ballerinas the
trickling spiders
the weeds weeping
gutless and brainless

half-illuminated for the weapons
of enemies for sea monsters
for the sphinx for eyelids
to have finished
crowing the skyline
shut in behind his teeth

waiting for the spears
the banners
the lungs deep
in breath the indiscretions
the blackened faces of hyenas

swallowed by his entire face
as if nothing ever
happened as if my wings

had never grown stiff
my brains never
ambushed by
all the strength of sunset

by the keyhole in
your pocket
the one you have to
close your eyes to see