He wakes. Alive. No cash. No phone.

Down from their ash trees squirrels nose

through drink and dope enough to stone

a wood’s astonishment of crows.

He stirs and gives the crows a scare.

Pinned up with lamps, tar paper sky

flaps open at a corner where,

tipped out of dusk, moths flicker by,

skim rings around him, put to flight

such stars as steel-capped boots might spark,

shake out the red from each tail light

before their wings fold into bark;

its scabbed and corrugated face

that mocks him as, still pissed, he tries

to wave down cars or, flailing, chase

light vanishing inside cats’ eyes,

gone searching for an end, a trick

with ampoule, vial or blister pack

or, waiting for its twist and click,

the white top of a childproof cap.