S

Shadows embrace the lampposts; lovers
kiss each other on the outskirts of town,
lose their fingertips in a dream. In the park
aliens measure the insanity of caterpillars
with tiny obsidian forks. Creatures inside the
distant stars try to laugh again, little creatures.
Clouds eat away creased fingers of the ageless,
and nothing but gold disappoints the reach.
Tulips silently erode every bedroom,
winos go either postal or fishing,
hobos stuff mailboxes with sliced haloes.
What for, you may want to ask. Or why
snakes conceal their joy like stolen wine,
like a withered chandelier or unwritten music.
No one is going to answer. No one is trying to raise
the eyelids of ketchup and toothpaste this evening.

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