OPTIONAL POETRY

Sirens all night, unrepealable. Why does it seem to get late all at once? This is still the hour of doors and muffled stairs, which cedes to the hour of the lonely cars. Somewhere in here the static gets sharp, the night grows teeth, and alone takes on a tomb-like flavor– some dull wine that’s either cheap or gone sour– uncertainty exerting its effect on a volatile moment, but really, there can only be so many false alarms–   […]