Paradise Answering Service

by Jeffrey Cyphers Wright

November draws its purse strings tight.
A pack of clouds swallows the moon.
My old lamp blinks, its wiring kaput.

Between useless and euphoric, I sleuth
for meaning, meandering from Gramercy
to the river.  Listening to The Shivers . . .

to Robert Kelly lifting scripture off
a mirror.  On Windmill Attack Mode.
Milling around in my grab bag of genes.

At the end, the language we suspend
will shepherd us past midnight’s derrick.
Leaning on eternity like a vagrant.  O,

I’ll still pay for the foolish love I spent
when you were on top of my to-do list