He wakes. Alive. No cash. No phone.
Down from their ash trees squirrels nose
through drink and dope enough to stone
a wood’s astonishment of crows.
He stirs and gives the crows a scare.
Pinned up with lamps, tar paper sky
flaps open at a corner where,
tipped out of dusk, moths flicker by,
skim rings around him, put to flight
such stars as steel-capped boots might spark,
shake out the red from each tail light
before their wings fold into bark;
its scabbed and corrugated face
that mocks him as, still pissed, he tries
to wave down cars or, flailing, chase
light vanishing inside cats’ eyes,
gone searching for an end, a trick
with ampoule, vial or blister pack
or, waiting for its twist and click,
the white top of a childproof cap.
