The moon, once full, is snow.
The line of transplanted trees,
thin and bloodless. The pink neon
bakery sign, Sweet Inspiration,

a mockery of loneliness—
but no one cares to eat, we souls
of this hour jacked up on what-
ever. And though desire

is a dirty word these days, what
else to call the idling car, its passenger door
pushed open; or the shirtless man—
he must be mad, tweaked out on speed—

outside his door
at Beck’s Motor Lodge, staring
for hunger or mercy. Or me,
rubbing dirt from my eyes, wanting,

again, a man I do not want.