I run to my duskhouse,

a stained dream of glass,
mouths opening
and closing. . .

it smells of a city built in the rain,
of candle light in a goldenrod coffin.

It is the silence in the back of an angel’s attic.

We weathered the sidereal,
the tidal collapse of a thousand black-chrome
haunts, insects moving

in the shade, the lingering echo,
one exorcised saint, diminishing.

The duskhouse, the evaporation, another dead ocean.

(A car sidesteps past,
the color of glistening

Sepia-tone graffiti, hooks and chains
waving from the back of a butcher’s truck,
waitresses in fluorescent stanzas with voices
like a lost year’s death throe rattling out—

our lord, whose art is instant,

allow one more night.

Ryan Smith