Poetry. In which, impelled by midnight's hazy, accelerating deeps, our semantic insomniac surveys a landscape packed with roving big cats, self-medicating apartment neighbors, and other urban schleppers of allusive, shape-shifting proportions. Wherein time may be had but never wholly kept, and words spread their length across sleep-worn parchment walls. A strange new world, but brave amateurs are welcome. ...from the squat rack breaths are minced/ like erotic ifs to have done speed/ or to do speed wouldn't want to jinx it/ but you must be sorry to be taking up/ my time on doing the deed and where/ does the time go?