Photo via stainexpert.blogspot.ca
St. Sunday becomes the bloom of my eye;
we follow on highs and smoky nights,
in bars, the sidewalk, the silver rain.
Then again, I help myself to the vanities, the proof–
I’ve wasted my time trailing coffee rings
and muddled bassoons.
Three blockades present themselves, the golden three:
the taken, the departed,
and the not-yet-arrived.
Faceless, I encourage the red stains further.
She whispers:
“Incomplete hours. Another.”
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