Wednesday, March 29, 2017

From the Window

From the Window

There goes the drunken moon
on its way home.

I drink the night like a body
fallen to the cement of solitude.
The rats of the garden 
warm, shelter, and comfort
me with chewed kisses.

Dawn smells
like the bodies consumed
by the waters that fell
into the landfills
of who I use to be.

I do not know if I am or not
who wants the new night
the New Year
this age-old time to end,
and every yesterday turned into a song
warming my night.

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