SITTING IN A PARKING LOT AFTER MIDNIGHT

Keys in the ignition.

Do I touch anything for its heat

or for the glitter of

firefly wings that

brush my cheek/ for the tragic euphoria of

fading condensation

upon the windows?

It is gone again

like it so often

has been/ a final pact of hope

& the messenger closes

his eyes.

This is what you get

slipping between universes

touching the impossible ones

in the backseat

of the car. Days spent on nothing but smoking

& musing of

being a castlebuilder/

days spent letting

the dream go.

Start the engine already,

find another place

to sleep.