i find night, philosophically,
in the crackling of light under
the door hinges, in street lights passing
bleary and bright and clotting
the veins of obsidian running through
our sky: we are deep
in the mountain, one chord
echoing in my skull that will crumble,
un-fossilized, into oil to burn
for the midnight lamps. our eyes
loom luminous as slightly toxic
moons. the streets are tinged
with the red and gold
dust of drought; i read a strange
pattern in my smoggy city stars.