Nightshift

My breath is heavy from the clannish dusts Inhaled at midnight when the clock strikes late With the tone of severe darkness. I hasten to the atmosphere of languor, Capturing the scene of the rise of harlots protesting The breach of wayward contracts. Theirs is a shift so late and confraternal that owls Wince loudly from hate. Mirrors I glimpse at show images of blackened Eyelids, strife, and the silhouette of drained saliva. Masking themselves with serrated leaves torn by hastening time, The antiphons of late-night hymns lean on the Protracted stress of hours passed at a wake.