Eyes to the light
at the end of the tunnel
see no shade
and are taken away from here
anywhere but here
right now at 8 in the morning
during rush hour
that is quite slow
and dead
when I am alive
but not for long
at this rate
because the subway is a glowworm
where the tunnel is a light again
and I’ve made a mistake
of walking into it
*
Love is
a scabby thing
of the past
defined in what was
and mostly what wasn’t
like a haze on the mirror
after a shower
that leaves nothing but
you in the cold
and see how dirty
the glass remains,
though it could just be you
*
The stars are old and dying
while we’re young and living;
under their darkening light
we are indestructible,
bright flashes dazzling
with wit and hunger
and jealousy and sadness
and all there is in this world
and out of it too
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