POEM FOR THE NEXT STRANGER I MEET

by Ron Czerwien

 

Night in infinite decline,
it doesn’t matter. Stooges club each other
for joy, while a scale of ascending
bleats weigh the peripheries. From border crossing
to interrogation cell, a split hair.
I feel the urge to lift this curtain between us
with my teeth. I’m a jokester
and a terror. To think some agitated
dust would rush to revise my footprints.
And then there is you, unaccustomed to this cold
red smoke curling out of my sicknesses.

 

 

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