the ride home
8.55 pm and the lights are still on over the worksite.
A constructed day, time running
tangent to the parabolic rise and fall of dusk and light.
There, noon is a fluorescent light switch drowning
out the sleepy glow of the moon.
Their faces are ghosts between sheets of zinc
and cold lamp posts. In silence, one rides out
to a dorm where he drowns,
again, no longer by a devouring light
but by a darkness that speaks
of erasure, a city that speaks of disdain.