tiny epoch

Street poetry

what was that?
the color of the wind
or the order of the lips,
my hand in contortion
touching the intangible surface
of fiction;
I left the building
out
there
the night pinching the street
like a hungry jaw
the naked trees
as real as
the limbs of insects,
I wanted to remain
prostrated
on the sidewalk
like the dim casting glare
of the streetlamp,
nameless
in that minute
with all the beauty
of fact –

no longer possibility
but plain actuality,
a happy yellow leaf
in its autumnal decay
enduring its
tiny epoch
of death.

 

 

nihilistic poetry

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