for the cedars

there is no your side of the fence because
it is all over on the rooftops
men are playing cracker jack
soundtracks to silent movies in
the darkness of these knuckle folds

a good night beats.
pulsing and contracting
in the sky moaning
a virulent beast, back arched, howling
spanning both sides of this filmy, pathetic
façade.

capture the night.
enclose its
bestial hours. In this
woven metal are forged
men who dream of
women and women
who dream of liberated tomorrows.

there is no your side of the bed and
this mattress, skinny and contrived
aches for us.

all along the roads and all along the streets
are weeds bending in the heat
from the opal sky we look like rodents
gnawing.

six heavy men could never carry us
to the peaks we visit
bedsheet valleys and mounds we conquer
as the summer plates vegetate among mothballs.

moonlight assaults
your cheek, bleaching every
peachy pixel. you lay down slowly,
aching.