Wednesday, November 30, 2011

last poem

the moon crisp like paper,
cold puts her lips against my neck

voices of this sad night
sing the end is near
yellow eyes following like headlights
as the city slips past me

pray until these bones
will break

until these roads will turn North
and lead me home
back to something that was
years of soft breathing
and the gentle creak of muscles,
flexing and stretching together
as the sun rose

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