Lonely, the night barks like a dog.
My night, my night alone,

which I prepared with raw fish
and a seasoning of untraceable stars.

I’ll have to sleep here
beneath the city’s blanket of roots,

with the impounded voices of others,
their strange heads rising from the depths of an apple.

Animal heads, heads like domes of the horrible hours
of the early morning that fall from my heart.

Wax domes topple silently,
afraid even to make the noise of their own ruin,

orchards of silence in the harnessed streets.

The revellers return under the acrid lights.
Animal heads almost in human form.

I’m not sure when the face of the land
slid into the sea.

Lonely, like the apple that I cannot taste,
my soul barks with the night.

My soul and the dogs.

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