On top of a clock tower

As I stammer through a painter’s abstraction

with moonbeams she accents

both of my chapped hands

as I stumble

I am reaching

for sinister spirits

while I close my oily eyes

decay brushes up against my hump back

The clock tower under my feet

pulses with every second

The entire city is a shade of burnt orange and so thick with smoke that I can’t see what it is that I’m reaching for.

Not stars,

but a thousand cigarette tips.

I’m used to the smell by now.