Consigned C**k Crows These Hours

Consigned c**k crows these hours...

graffiti sputtered upon the wall,

capturing the nervosity of its vandals.

The overpass' heavy respiration of

fugitive traffic kept on.

Incoming evening made senseless

overtures...to a time and place that

knows death grows more libidinous as

light dims.

The long way home knows a longer way--

as the black of rats mend distances...

everything seems close enough to bump

into.

To stub the mind's light against...

and against--the subconscious and its

raw maladjustment. 

An arm lost to its length, a foot lost to

its step...ingested and digested by hours

that cannot fend for themselves.

And so dreams improvise, as eyes close

by degrees...tonic to what refuses

unveiling.

Almost as if one stood hushed in a

darkened hallway...staring at a skeleton

key in its lock for hours.

Unremitting flashes of lightning creating

the illusion of its turning...the door

opening.

Thus, the tension of what's done and 

undone--the visiting hours of apprehension...

of which the consigned c**k crows.

Konstantinos Mark