It’s the old story: Nancy has

floored Sluggo with her baseball bat,

and he lies snoring.  The lump pops out

on his brow and gleams, a tumorous

small moon: whatever was jarred loose

from the thick pudding between his ears

is trying to punch through to the stars

that hover in front of Sluggo’s eyes

like incandescent bugs.  But Sluggo’s

luggage, and Nancy’s leaving.  The lump

is down, or waning.  And now the damp

is taking its countless places.  The sky’s

ink wash descends, and Nancy is lonely,

as Sluggo, beginning to move, will be.