other things

pale closed eyes
spitting at blond blue
deaf dumb lips
nakedness of sweat
dullness of
4am
a silver crescent held
upside down
in a glass window
the pixels reflecting sadness
grasping at the imagined fog
before the breaking light
permeates the steel
sarcophagus
the hard men
cut down the last sick tree
and
in the room
the faces of the other
dissipate
replaced by walls
but hank was right
there are worse things
than being alone