awake

there's a burning at 3:52 am. it has to do with the typewriter keys that he's toiled over.
the dust and love in the curls of his hair.
the cockroach he might wake tucked behind the empty bottle of bourbon.
or that drunken word he's tickling,
to keep it walking, rolling, on a crooked path. before it hits the
floor.
or the flickering of city lights. within the perfect four 90 degree corners of windows of rooms of buildings of far away distance.
now on, now blinking, now dead,
now asleep.