The Truth About Northern Lights

    I'm not right. I'm interfered with

    and bent as light. I tried to use the spots，

    for months I tried with rings.

    Only now I'm thinking in cracks

    that keep a modern light

    lunged. I keep the porch light on

    to burn you off in ghosted purls，

    the licks of which filament me.

    My Day-Glo tongue's cutthroat.

    Though I'm not clear，

    I'm a sight whose star stares back：

    it's a new kind of dead；

    it hides its death in my cinched

    testicle. That bright burr makes me

    unreal and itch. By the time

    I'm something else， you're making weather

    with so-and-so. Drama tenants you；

    it wades in queasy waves，

    mottled to the marrow.

    My mean streak beams neon

    so I won't be refracted

    or led to reflections. My eyes

    trick god's and kick the careless reversals

    of radio cure-alls. Rays suffer

    until they clench the damaged night in me：

    where I go out， gone as done

    in a mood of black moving through.

    Darkness sits there， pleased.

    An iridescent ire could not go unaired，

    my limbs wicking at the window.

    Look out the window.

    I've outened the world

    to show you real barrenness：

    a void a light

    warps into want and then wants

    until it warps all it glances.