I’ll augur my day 

in the paint flakes, coldly
contest great pangs of 
change like maybe a
wall-eyed olm might
pimple-pop soap bubbles, hooden
         the calmly lamazing moon
            with a street lamp, hold
 
each breath until each breath beckons, begins 
to compound in profoundly combustible
caterwauls
       snagged
        in some waffling frog’s throat, snubbing
         the sparks like hex-flexed kittens make
 
muffins; and note in the spectre of anything other than
              clumsy uncertainty—cats at play
              or prayed for, fording their way to a sticky
              eternity tossed among rawed and redundant
 
stars—what thumb-smudged trace of
gods or alarms left
dithering, much as impending
headlights, limelights, eyelights,
                  moonlight lingers in what
                  small, farcical fart thrust
                  seraphim-thick from a crack
                  in my mewling apartment, 
                                         needing me there
 
every morning and evening, to 
shield it again from a falling or 
shuddering star that I’ve cramped
         in the dybbuk’s appendages, gathered 
         like sausages mocking
         bananas or cobwebs clotting
         my sump-pump-crumpling
         closet’s creases—