The night is light-webbed, silver-ribbed—all spearmint-
scented ghost fuzz, all dancing the dance of end days,
of the Kingdom of What Is Not: a black so black it neons,
a green so green it furs our skin like leaves, like wolves.
Tonight we crawl and cling—thrusts of his to her or her to her.
We escape the fear of not living: we phosphoresce, we pray
for the storm to pass and hope we won’t
die alone in the unlit corner of a hospital ward—
we’ll crush together, a firefly burst
singing the frenzy of horseshit and pearls.
Like pink fingerpaint, strawberries in a clean bowl,
we’ll die beautiful—