The stars, inscrutable as jellyfish, flicker overhead.
I place my faith in God, or flame. Whatever breaks
or makes us more than just a song-starved jukebox
holding breath as though someone means to steal it.

Every day: one hand extended to say welcome, another — halt.
My energy — disowned — this engine of desire, and so
I ripple the air with my own, small wish:
To consolidate this loneliness, that space left between

myself and myself where the circuit has broken open.
I want to be equal to the fire, lit with my own life.
You see what a man’s light can do to him?
It howls at the mention of your name, damp

and fighting to break from the tongue’s back row.
But who knows what this age will bring. What growth.