The Book of Weston

Crusty leaves scrape across

frozen concrete, exfoliating the day.

Waves of cold shock the fragile skin,

invade the open door I stand inside. Above,

dead stars swallow my desires.

Their bright hunger: the hunger of material.

What are our weightless prayers to those giants?

Variations of throat noises gurgling up.

The tubes speak and think it's real. I feel

my stories spilling up and out into the night,

out from this beautiful bag of flesh,

into the black mouth of the world.