**
Evening seeps through shadows, diluting space between
buildings. On headphones, hymns to reptile aliens made of light.
Under balding maple trees, my feet slip in leaf pulp. On the greenway, a dead
hawk mimics a Norwegian Blue parrot.
evening dyes chemtrails
luminous purple scars
autumn skies
**
Jaundiced amber whiskey light from the lamp.
Orange and green street glow. Store windows reflect sky.
Bare shouldered cosmos soothes tired eyes with cool fingers.
Light falters, dead stars scatter.
**
Let me say three things I love:
The moon’s reflection on the lake, the smell of dusty books,
the glance of a young man who sees through me – nonchalance
searing.
I disregard myself too.
**
A lei of nylon roses caught in bare branches encircles
a span of celestial nudity.
Wind tousled flowers reveal cosmic obscenity
to those standing in the gutter.
**
Morning and midnight separated by a twisted
sheet, a kicked rope, a cotton cyclone that meanders between
two bodies, barebacked and drooling, enduring a fitful night in
radiator tropics.
Nicholas Alexander Hayes is the author of Ante-Animots: Idioms and Tales (BlazeVOX, 2019) and Amorphous Organics(SurVision, 2019).
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