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Where do the dead — all the sleepless — belong?
This dark world swollen with song. Their throats singed,

bellies bloated, eyes milk; what do they long
for? Was it the bitter tune that unhinged

them? What strains hard at the leash? What chomps down
at the bit? What, indeed, bawls through the mist?

Something wicked. Ignition and meltdown.
Toes curled. Well greased. No stifled screams. Hips twist.

Jaws lock. A web of spit between their lips
and a slither of light between their thighs,

since the garden was empty. It was night.
Twitch the curtains apart. Venus that drips.

Luna, there is nothing in your moonrise.
Nothing but song that I heard by moonlight.