John Roth
12 a.m., another front porch gathering where spiral-shaped bulbs fluoresce through powdered glass as moth wings paddle deftly in the splash light. Moonbeams kiss the ceiling with stonewhite lips; raw taste of opal smoothed out over pointy stucco tongues. Naked, he sits on the edge of his bed, wondering how long it takes for darkness to fill a single given space. All night, his mind buzzes with insomnia like the tiny box fan shoved into his window. From shifting drawers to tangled blinds, a ghost-hand (not his own) slips in and out, then back again. The shadows tallied on his headboard not a mark, but a compendium of muted stars.
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