Monday, November 4


smell of the toothpaste teeth brushed in the halls
& six-hour old steak fry-cooked to fatten came crept
or come creeping; outstayed—railroad men button
their spotlight into night as drunken lovers perform
fracas for these wheezing clouds;
one black cat stands mewing before the closed door
to outside
slinking its body arm through my opened door to it.

& so
I amused am by the palmy collection of a ladybird, whose
flight fumbled its way into my room ago & is now
beating itself against my window pane—
releasing it back into the night is precious
the caught fine black wings tremble to fly, to stutter,
& take it, breathing, a course the fine whimpers of
flight through this concoction of November night.

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