Tryst
The History of a Fire Escape
there is a city in my head
filled with grey faces
identical hopeless hands
long stubby legs
there is a messy ring of flowers
crushed in rich blood
claret, crimson, cerise
sailing under the pealed sun
basking in stray currents
there is a pomegranate
sleeping on the coffee table
shuffling like coma in disguise
there is a crack in the middle
of the sidewalk
where we awkwardly looked
at the arriving birds
lining our paths with
wildflowers and moss
(s.h)
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