1088

it’s the day of the week
when the gods decided
to take a break
so I’m breathing sulphur
smelling eggs
and draping my hand
over a fog bank

I’m riding a bat
with two heads
skin like
a stitched ancient leather
purse that was left
out in the rain

I’m calling my loved ones
with my hand around my mouth
a makeshift horn
in the dark

but I just hear my poems
yelled back at me
little whimpers
tinier bangs
and old sighs