Tuesday, April 03, 2018

Midnight sits at the tip
of an extended tongue,
she has a name there,
she waits like a church
staircase open,
a silk monster.

She organizes cabinets
with a wisp of air.
Belts and handles
float out of storage.
Headlines flicker across
her rouged brow.

Screaming thoughts navigate
the streamer-draped bulletins.
Umbilical cords cut by fish tank edges
paint the subway pink and brown
with layered numerals and letters.
The telephone pole is a grandfather clock.
The shocking energy reclines and coils.

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