6am poetry

early morning, the 6 bus arrives and you haven't heard it yet which means you know it's 5:10am and the sun isn't out yet but that won't step the early early commuters and the late late partiers from northing on up to the loop and then to where? whatever the bus is probably empty anyway.

splitting fur

smoking sometimes in a sanguine shelter
licks of pain
and the presence of pleasure
and chiefly rabbits whose fur's notsomuch matted as stuck
like chunky spikes and the stench of your vomit
your stomach's half-cooked effluvia
like carrots on top of charmed pencil-cones and honey-tipped
bereavement, bake on high for days and days
a silent haze
stealing surely but quickly but layered
yes as in matisse but also as in beer
playing games with the foam-flecked freedom fighters
who move on diagonal when straight is too much
and jump through all hoops+garters to get to the finish
but now find themselves blind, dead and made of stone
or possibly cracked, malformed plastic
because the mold didn't hold
it wanders into alleyways and drifts past wrinkly whiskers
to speak in a desultory tone
that is
desultorily, not that we care
hush, listen:
the night is old, the sun is not up
the stones are cold, the wind is risen
the rattle of bones and the science of transit
will interweave their lessons into your dreams
and mine
and we won't even know.