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.
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