This night the moon has swollen
into the mode of a water chestnut
and if that moon doubled:
only one of them would serve as the tumor.
I remember that I was a hostage in the crib,
doing a little dance for music.
You make me want to change my address.
You, were the laser cherry in the dark:
a cigarette to light the mob by.
You make me regret the things I do in the light.
You make me embrace the things I do in the dark.
My soul is a detested labyrinth,
unlit and rarely trespassed.
Its only register– the unending sound
of chiming trashcans.
The bats scrape their hangnails
on the scapula of the wall.
The wall, Luis– I immured.