The Same Place, By Day

I have not forgotten much:

The tarmac was night.

And the streetlamp’s reflection,

A full moon in a puddle of dogpiss;

Sidewalks effervesced with ghosts

That blossomed out of the cracks

In my memory of the place.

I sat solid; not of cold,

But of fear that the slightest

Tremble might clear my visions

So that the street becomes

Street, and the ghosts become floating

Faces that resemble faces

Of ghosts I have hidden, and not so well,

Below the concrete of my fears.

The morning frost

Binds my eyelashes

And for a ghastly minute

I cannot open my eyes

To rid myself of the night.

The bittercold concrete

Defeats my temperature

In ravenous vengeance,

But I don’t remember much more.


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