It’s dark under the door no one can hear us.
Steam overheats the room, windows’ thrown open, dream
the dead of winter.
Shut out and suffocate the avenue’s approach, a wide swathe of sound. Parade
of motorcycles, rafters shake, the trucks
this sturdy 1906
begs the question, just when will the house fall down?
Cat, we are alone here—
just us and hundreds of authors of thousands of words.
You seem to want to extinguish yourself.
I’m over that game.
I want to be joyous—want (to say that aloud?)
to trapeze ‘til morning.
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