Tuesday, March 01, 2011


At ten 'til there's still time
for one more, she said, so one more
is what we had, her head turning, her
turning heads

It wasn't the sky as she saw it that lingered so longingly
Hung up on itself, a hanger-on

Where were we?
(the dream still warm in my hand)

By four the late-night's stumbled home
What's said is done, there is no more
At four the place you lay your head
is stone or screen or hearth or whore

there was a blank thing, black thing, blanker
than the static remnants of the Big Bang,
now flippant through channels -- ancient radiation
remote between our current stations

the dripdripdrip of deprivation

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