You hover sweaty above sleep,
cut-off from brain-churn dreams:
silhouettes of Power's whiskey bottles,
.45 bullets in an over-sized cracked cup,
buttery-wooden Holga camera faces
of glance-back-in-sorrow stained glass saints.
The before-dawn Seattle train breaks wind,
a neighbor's horse kicks at its pipe corral,
ice-fog sinks into the fur of silent coyotes:
you step half-lost into funereal night...
crow hop... hurl a scuffed tennis ball
for a ghost Wolfhound to chase forever.