Kevin Killian

Last night whistling I passed by their alley, saw them in a sidelong blink of light from traffic, a speeding car, then I went home. Dreamed of gold skies, black money.  I felt so stupid, to talk about them feels stupid.  I’m the sullen red Sun. Bernadette leans from tenement windows, sailors keep searching world after world for Bernadette, and her arms are black, her outstretched proffered palms all milky. From them coins drop into Pickpocket’s pockets freely. Pickpocket’s face is pocked, his arms are pocked.  I threw his face in a lake to make it ripple, he smokes a cigar to an orange hot hole in his face, a glow.  At night the Sun’s a kid brought behind the woodshed and abased.