Somewhere on the other side of the world,
he acknowledges the waning stars
with a casual wave of a tired hand
through the only unbroken window on his street.
His focus now returns to the words scrawled
in jagged spiral patterns around his arm—
images from three-nineteen a.m.—born of
caffeine nerves and the muffled resonance
of a pained creature shrieking
inside his skull.