Medication like wings
torn off butterflies.

Pain, transitional as rain-
blown leaves. Suspension

of gravity, puddles, feet,
ghosts hovering above

cobble. Lights go out
in the window so a stranger

with my name can walk
through darkness.

An iron fence stands guard,
clutch of cemetery

spears. I brush worn
paint polished by mittens.

The moon is open,
a cataracted eye. Looking

skyward, I crack a shin
on the corner of a slatted bench.

Difficult, but forgettable.
There will always be

another collision, startled
pin-prick of long-ago light,

this knot pulsing over bone.