Belonging/Window Ghost

Certain hours belong
to the wet bois, rotting
in the next room. The pull-out
is unfurled, the pipe’s orb is still swirling
of its own accord. The meth
hasn’t taken our teeth, yet.
Certain hours belong
to the dead, I hand them minutes
through the door. Wood creaks
against my back, it’s just my eyes
blinking. I’m trying to watch porn
on my phone. A stranger whispers
from the closed window. The horrid
curtains.

They want to eat my flesh. Certain hours
belong dead. Too often, 2:00 AM is left out
catching all the rain.
A wet gurl for the wet bois.

Certain hours belong.

And some don’t.

The Sheep on Fire

I couldn’t sleep. Bells were ringing.
Teens were playing with matches
down the block.
It is too late for bells. But they ring.
If you paste together
enough awful things
eventually it looks to be—a miracle.
All the miracles
lodged in my sinuses,
glued to the sides
of my ear canal.
All the bells ringing.

I died a lot in my dreams
when I was a child.
That stopped only when
I learned to die while awake.
Another miracle.

Miraculous waking.
I am hearing midday sirens.
I dream I’m alive again.
I’m a sheep, ringing.
The teens are playing with matches.
It’s too late for bells.