A Warm Enough Question
The months flicker.
I confiscate black magic & relief.
Some evenings, it’s quicksand
& ideas rough with lashes.
My mood is a mystery, 
a flying white fire of conversation.

These are mouths & necks,
these are just pictures:
casual summer dresses fading  
to night scars in sweaty street clothes,
greedy sex & theft.
The impulse to devour is rift 
& rapture, fear without doubts.
Denial is not closure.

Enter any suggestion—whispered comfort
if the killing heals. Grandmother’s road, a gold field. 
Every piece of agreement desires corruption,
satisfaction pockets its own cost.

I maintain a tiny dwelling 
made from sun-bone strings & art. 
I think I know what’s downtown. 
A new century?
I don’t want to rewrite the city.
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