Thursday, January 28, 2010

shred of city

The press of you
on the drum
placards me,
or answers to some
question of presence

what let down
the soft no-squeak
of night
around us?
an emptied city
only bluish
on each edge

a street yawns
let us fill just this
little shred of

on the prow, the press
when snow enters skin
or the slippery vertical
of lost architecture,

we careen
before ourselves
in a bloom of guilty
music, me
filled toward tomorrow.

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