2:30 rolls to 3. The night train stalls.
The pistol grip on the angel’s sword confuses.
How to use the thing if Satan calls him out?
Clarence and Edward gaze at bowls of porridge.
They wrack their brains remembering why food
was necessary — when they were alive
in the temporal fashion popular on earth.
I fly through and land between them. 4 o’clock.
Partygoers cycle homeward roads.
We three submerge into the dark canal,
play musical chairs with an ogre and with the god
of manuscripts. We snicker how his name
means wimp in the language prevalent on Orion.
‘I need closure!’ Clarence clamors. Edward grins.
A sun is rising somewhere and we chase it.