Antibiotic
On my wrist nothingness flies in
and clutches the roundness with
its tired hunger
(Whose skull is moon tonight?)or its claws or whatever.
The street runs to one apothecary;
two nevermen carry
a conversation whose text is touched by quietus.
(Knife of a cloud dissects the sky.)I step inside the odor of the antibiotic and sin.
To fix your waning aura I must become an assassin.
Insects
On the night-sky-breasts
your attic’s head
remains alight to learn how to be fed
on the twilight’s lactation and survive.Here exists no noise except
the exceptions accepted –
trees, honking in the lane, crickets.And you forge a cave with your right hand
on your left palm where your resurrect
an insect becoming winter.
