My midnight poetry cried ‘Wolf!’ and hid under the bed,
And tugged at dusty carpet in a heartbreak.
Don’t want to wake up to the premonition
Of heavy souls that can’t squeeze to a tea can,
My own tired jinnee who has gotten out
And gotten poisoned by its freedom:
The tender scents of lilac lit up
Too many humming birds, and their
Incessant buzzing drove into the ground
An epileptic fit of madness, stuttered,
And I collapsed, exhaling
The smoking metal of an emptied barrel.