it is a dark flitting thing,
can turn the black sky white-grey/gray
soft sheets into fluffy clouds
that wrap tightly around the neck
blue blood into red rivers,
wet mouths into dry tourniquets,
skeleton trees into shimmering ravens,
forever seeking what’s not here.

i called it love once.

but it was only the distorted reflection
of me in your late night pane.
if i were a gothic policeman,
perhaps i could arrest it
with painted handcuffs
as it rests briefly
on the lucid ledge,
plotting its next move.

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