as if

Revenants walk carefully as if
the earth were smiling at them.
Too much wine and music had
made them disgustingly beatified,
and saxophones laugh.
They follow the numbers
inside sweet puddles and
thrown stones. Out of thin air
into nothing float countless
curses of mythical animals.
Dreams don’t fit
passenger seats anymore,
but if mosquitoes can dream,
they dream of eating a saxophone,
and every feather lost by a bird
instills fear into the real McCoy.


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