Days as measure, implacable boxes
Contain too much scrawl and hours thicken
Thin where worn remain to hold their place
Bending over the bathroom sink I
Heard the news inked on air
The moon is new but love is old
And in the spattered mirror
See the slightest cloud of her filmy dresses
Black ribbons made of spit and ice.
Traces of reddish orange in the dark
Immeasurable as thought yet
Taking a thought’s impulsive path
Red couplets invisible illegible prophecies
Soaked on Canal Street sidewalk dissolve
To blood, exploded into
Lanterns reignited by lunar light
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