23 Oct 2012

Tuesday Night

this that writes the night: corner of this, street of that. tired old closey-shop all dozey neon blink. a tall governor street-light; a tall and cold unmother car-park: both peer down. by the hunker-tree; by a steel bench the shape of boredom. all these things library the night: write the morning at bay. between its lines see me drag my shadow-ink: I, written by this that I see - tonight into a place. where I see other bones of the night; I see bones falling inside shadows, people-tall and thin. bone-skin shadows plunging, crouch, forced to their knees, in corners of ground search for scraps of their names, their shadows long gone. their shadows always gone: cracks into this, the sun comes up, harbinger mess where hiding was, corners them out with too much this, and again, too much that

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