It’s the night when blue dogs
come with pitchforks
to eat our eyes

the mirror’s last legacy
a flaking silver rage
unconditional surrender
the color of the moon

bad weather ten miles high
filled with fists and broken glass

the only sound a static hiss
tape loop of a snake in heat
giving form to silence

and the rattle of the nerves
the shaking window panes
somewhere in the spleen stained
with blood’s rushing thrum

our shattered bones
picked clean