a.m.

At 3 a.m. the town is full of footsteps,
charred stars and chapped hands.
Hoofprints and tiretracks blemish the walls,
mock messages for the nonexistent and eyeless.
Trains laugh at each other like children
before swallowing the ties, the skies.
Leaves stick to the faces of merciless water.
Good morning, beautiful creatures.

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