midnight by scott krave

there is a sense of tragedy in vast spaces
deserts of hearts of everyone who has lived
and the few who took switchblades to the tires
of their own jostling boroughs

in the oceans I am digging dance-pop
on the tundra I perfect my golf game

pushing things as far away as possible
and then trying to find them to push them
even farther, I’ll gather a posse
and dream in sounds of cold contact in magenta,
borrowing silk screen patterns and tablespoons
of balsamic vinegar

in the Baltic sea I am a fleet of vessels
conquering the known world
for 10 years and then falling to pieces
at the hands of a star map

the steam engine’s smoke
is acute to the mountainside.
use me to signal from the tops of abandoned mesas
and welcome three sisters to a house of nine pueblos

you can feel in the air whether space is hallowed
or abandoned. it feels like breathlessness
in abandon, or an increase in mass.
they are not mutually exclusive

I siphon gasoline from the tanks
of immaculate land rovers and forget
what I’m doing and nap under a whirligig
with half the lights burnt out
Scott Krave hops around when he waits for buses in the cold and he’s written a couple chapbooks: Beaches of the big north and bone smoke.