Blood


The evening hours grow hungry.
—JJ Jameson

You shiver like a string of chimney smoke
and wonder if  the wind is here to fold you
like evening papers thrown on doorsteps,
too urgent to wait until morning.

Trash scuttles in the gutters, and the city
clings like soot.  You remember a flower’s
bloom of red and its spread across the floor,
the stamp of your boots in the doorway.

If you find a new home you can wall up
the windows, eat what crumbs you can find,
let a backbone of dishes stack in your sink.
Talk to no one, but begin to pray.

The rooftops are an open mouth, and evening’s
stomach rumbles.  An el-train slashes the sky.
Dig the knife beneath your skin, cut the fat
from a lie, the first word from your hand.


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