graveyard shift or the devil at large nicholas moore The men at 3am cease to be. Instead they are jackals; they come up like vomit in your throat They pace the aisles With bloodshot eyes Howling, whistling    To the rows of milk and Of cereal (waiting to fall into your cart) Under fluorescent domes, poorly lit delirium      rises Like smoke from your lungs Shimmer, shimmer floor Sing, sing says the pack All box cutters and eerie looks In passing