rebellion drowns the moon under
layers of rain soaked concrete,
wishless stars rupture and burn
ulcers into leaf; my firework face
slits open golden foxes and mutters
things he cannot remember:
“grass stained leather...
priests on speed dial.”
hands steady, lighting the ends
of cheap explosives, until the beams
are blinded and neglect seeps into
the nightime and nothing but barcodes
and tattered wrappers become visible.
His face has never been the same.