Polaris

[busker]

Polaris

South of twilight
silver clots in the sky. ... So if there are silver clots south of twilight, then  the sun is presumably setting in the northwest, and you are below the tropic of cancer. Or are you? Is this perchance the angst of an expat living in Singapore? It couldn't be Australia, because you can't see Polaris from here. Not that Singapore has syringe ridden parks. Frivolity aside, my point is that the opening lines make very little sense.
Polaris, Sirius, Orion,
each its own wound.  ... why are they wounded? never resolved in the poem
We orient ourselves—

east of stars like stones
in a dark creek over-
brimming. Stones round
like the year’s round 
plump, palmed, and swallowed .... not sure where this line ends. It just seems to hang in there half-finished. The enjambment to the next strophe doesn't make sense either. The year's round plump? What on earth is that?

west of the headwind
pulling forth unknown origin: ... can't understand this line
a black cave’s salted breath ... a good standalone line...but that's about it
or days diving light. 

North of the updraft,
a great flood myth
trespasses the night. ... the allusions to various flood myths are fine, but I am still confused as to why they are to your north. Flood myths are usually, ultimately, of a Middle Eastern origin, as that's where melting glaciers at the end of the last ice age suggested them to cavemen 
I demand North.

North of borders—north of north—True north.
North of desperate peaks, sprawling roadways,
and trains gong-wobbling through the nocturnal fogs of collective uncaring. ... I like 'gong-wobbling'. Very Harry Potter.
North of dopamine songs pumpin dirty through cheap speakers, 
of useless catharsis, and leviathan caterwauls.

North of artificial light and iridescent roadside heat,
of gas prices, of syringes lurking like rattlesnakes in tall grasses,
of familiar bonds and bones and bones all together.

North of bountiful borealisms, ... a very Monty Pythonesque alliteration...don't think it belongs
of terrestrial hum drum. and beaten earth.
North of the same sun bludgeoning the sky into submission. ... I am almost sure you're an expat living in....maybe Mexico 
I demand north.

I like how the poem rolls on - there is a cadence in those lines