I fling my pick axe: 

Not a single frangible rock
in the entire cave system of my ego. ​

Just dust
and a dreary, glutinous sense
of having transgressed
certain unexpressed boundaries.  

The dark
is seriously dark down here
beneath the shine and starjitter
of early Nov. 

The mind sparkling to itself
in flagrant pools, the serrated pulse
of regret, this batmusic. 

Supposing the moon, which mechanically spins,
were to announce
                        padlockclick
its departure – 

which of you here
would roll back the rock? 

            I meant nothing but harm.