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.