my head is empty at 3.27 a.m.

it is damp with the night’s debauchery

plopping at the top of the bridge

are the noisy little birds

no one can hear

pall bearers to the dead mosquitoes

left there by circumstance

morsels for the hungry

cleaners of the earth

i think of such things

while the world keeps turning

and my sleep leaves

it won’t return

i turn and stare at drying

turnips on my table