Night-Scapes

Holding hostage nail clips

mailed to me from across the

hall,

Now there’s a tear duct forming

on the wall

and a light switch foaming off your back-slip,

Slush of golden mush,

I’m home and not alone,

And quiet under these lights.

 

These very night lies will curse

us with their rabid tongues and

swash bucket crickets,

So give me a ticket,

Or a lick’t, of your gun.

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