"Wanders" by Tad Malone

tom, my friend
asked the night
if it felt calmer
without the light
or if it kept
the pavements
wet on purpose.
It said:
blame the lingering
of florescent spots,
projections of a
world thats not,
and left his head
as if his sight
dreamt up the darkness.
Suppose the thing,
that he dread
was the compromise
between two beds
designed for rolling over,
what ghastly butter-
powder spread
to carve his face
a little bolder.
so is the driven bus
that weeps, with great
urgency at tom’s ricochet
like a kingfisher skimming
streets and shoulders
but he was at once
nail-thin and squeezed
not nearly dead
or older; and if
you were near, you
could catch
in glimpses that
staggered speech,
violet lines and the smolder
down his neck, but
not his throat as it
approached his shoulder.
resign to disbelief
and praise and fear--
as Tom, so quickly
knew no heaven here