The day will buzz, a bee inside the hive,
our sweet enigma,
honey dripping slow
and stinging, earthy as rebirth.
the night, I say, when stars emit a glow
so feeble we forget disaster’s root
and lunatics pick up the tune
the damned can dance to, oozing from the moon.
We bash our skulls on darkness, squeeze art brut
Our instruments might loll unplayed,
or trill like frogs, then wail like banshees.
or he—the angel incubus—will see
My books, my crude tools, me: all laid
out like a mummy and his ruins deep
within a scarab-scuttled tomb of sleep.