old tides in a bitter swing,
to sway along this dance
carried in some green place.
clearing the mattress of pillows
to sit down and smoke old pictures,
breathing in every image
reflected endlessly outside:
in bristled parks and streetlamps
that flick their liminal light,
so even the waiting hours may know.
an empty matchbox thrown aside
to lay beside the empty lamp -
between your hand and the wick
a cruel gust rushed past your drapes,
leaving your room to the light
of the flickering green neon outside.
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