On a thorn bed of neon I throng horizons threadbare and sinew. I am all tremble and fray and torpid and molecular seams of a dusk breeze. The bulbs weep their blaze and harden crystalline beneath my lower eyelid, a luminescent striptease pale of limbs and lust and laughless fibers. Blood pearls the starry nights of my fingerprints. The distances between synapses are light waves lengthened by their fade. I am all hum and hive humoring executions, the laurel of brick-less buildings bled and alight, a honeycomb of impotent eyes alert to the breaking of a day that teases my tawdry effulgence. I am runic, transmitting signs as tithing, a plot of aborted hawthorn invisibly burning against noons. I am nothing but resumed, the mad lives of window shoppers and impatient mothers and a beggar’s warmth, brilliantly losing a letter to neglect and longevity. I am the something here you need, flickering and absent.