There's no lights in the neighborhood of dead stars. An abandoned car down the street keeps vigilant watch of me and my habits. I shovel filled dance-cards and invitational poems into a backyard fire. I've only myself to blame. For all of it. I warm my aged and crippled hands in the first of fall evenings. Before meditating on the shape of closed almond eyes.
7:55 p.m. - 2017-09-25
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