In June, a city catatonic in its sickness,
   wreaths of streetlights stretching its mouth

in shades of disaster. I watch an entire reel
   of gaslight unfold. With a torch,

everything is permissible, permeable.
   Overhead, the moon blurring like sycamores

on a night train. I burn skin-suits,
   sheens of motor-oil in the basement.

Like how you traded for a net of every name lost
   in the throat of a storm—a miscarriage of salt.

Tracks stretching all the way to the shore,
   turning bird-bodied. A swarm of swallows to sacrifice.

Come dawn, I flatten my face against
   every storefront window—altar god, candles drowning

in gold. My hands never fast enough
   to catch a hymn or the engine’s whistle.

Here, I search for everything we burned to keep
   the power on, pockets of mercury.