Field of Skulls:

Stare hard enough at the fabric of night,

and if you're predisposed to dark—let’s say

the window you’ve picked is a black

postage stamp you spend hours at,

sleepless, drinking gin after the I Love

Lucy reruns have gone off—stare

like your eyes have force, and behind

any night’s taut scrim will come the forms

you expect pressing from the other side.

For you: a field of skulls, angled jaws

and eye-sockets, a zillion scooped-out crania.

They’re plain once you think to look.

You know such fields exist, for criminals

roam your very block, and even history lists ...