Broken wine bottles like thin
obsidian scattered across the pavement.
Skin cut open by cold wind,
worn down by fingernails
chewed jagged from the nerves.
Hotel paintings sag inward
supported poorly by splintered
broken frames, covered in gasoline,
to be burned for warmth and something
bright to look at.
The acrylic paint starts to melt into black tar
and ash creating purple smoke filling the nostrils
of apathetic drifters.
Entire mountain landscapes
are licked by orange tongues
as are the necks of pale women
in their fanciest clothes.
They don’t suppose that the heat
will even last the night.
Keeping themselves awake to soak
their eyes deep within the radiance
of all the precious light.

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