At night we'd haunt the bleachers' back row. Out there
was the center of something, baldness
quietly taking hold in the grass. Moths against the stadium
light like torn up notes.
When the traffic died some nightbirds
stuck in citrus along MacDonald A [...]
When I come in late, the devil is up
writing his sonnet. He's drinking jasmine
tea. In search of a word he lifts the top
from his Russian box lined with velvet where
an io moth is spinning on a pin.
He sets aside
a child's one-eyed bear,
my mother's [...]