"In the long dark deprecating morning, mourning the sad wrinkles of it, the hands wringing time like an aging fricatrice, porthole open, wind blowing through it, rattling bones, bones rattling toward doom, and she was afraid they would break, the long bones, the short ones, the femur, tibia, fibula, broken like promises, like dreams, and there was the wish-bone of the chicken, and Grandpa said if she held it up after she’d nibbled the meat off, it would snap in two, and she couldn’t remember if it was the long end of the bone that meant her wish would come true, or the short end she held in her hand, her bony hand holding to what never made any never-mind to start with, and it was in the dark before day, the long dark waiting morning, mourning the loss, and the clock’s broken hands."

Sue Brennan Walker, “2:55 a.m.”

"If we leave this place tonight
let’s not leave loveless.
Let’s dig a cemetery like a summer in our hands."

Alex Dimitrov, “Leaving Town With Allen Ginsberg”