Friday, November 09, 2007

At Dawn



a false light in morning
as we skulk our way home
under the drug, waves of
murder radiating from the
steep morning sky balanced
like a door on its hinges

what are we doing here at
dawn, walking past houses
we lived in five years ago,
me and you, what are we
doing here under the heavy
lacerated palm of this drug?

the bus station is deserted
and a black cat crosses the
street like we are invisible

then the sky slams shut in the
wind, though there is no wind,
and the taxis blare forth on
the early road to the airport

and we stutter our way home
under the drug, a violence
of purple energy in the sky
like a washing machine full
of blood-stained bedsheets



Kevin Spaide

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