NIGHT MIND

The night mind makes one o'clock revisions,
thing you only think of when your hands
seem separate, detached from your words.
Eyes pink,
waiting to be overcome,
the pen works,
spits out love, death,
and all your other Demons.
Your thumb and forefinger
scrawl out dominant chords
in paint on a greenblack canvas.
Some things glow,
but nothing lights,
and all you can do
is run off the track
until someone tells you to
let go of the hand that bites you.
At one o'clock in the morning
you think in fumes,
and you can never see your face.