The Sky Falls at Midnight

Grab one bag and hot wire
a small sedan. Drive to the dirt
watch buzzards stalk buffalo skulls
tattooed along dead road coated in cacti,
animated by dimmed headlights. Race.
Carve luminescence into pavement.

The air will sink into skin—injections
of ice from a hoarfrost syringe—roll
windows down, let desert wind sing
choir hymns to the face. Stop.

Climb the hood like a king
stepping onto a throne
for the first time, recline on the roof
lightly kissed with midnight dew,
count every single eye standing still
or dashing across black canvas—one
million flashes coming down,
creating a perforated outline of the vehicle.

Orion’s belt will come undone and sink
into the milk of Ursa Major, the rest
will launch like bullets from the sky
into vultures, into bones of lost, into woeful
jack rabbits, into the empty bag

splashing possessions onto starry soil.
Draw a person’s outline in the dew,
one who would be more than happy
to be disintegrated by fallen stars.

Marcus Clayton