tundish

bare like the trees
and blatantly shattered
he points to his wounds

I press my face
against the winter air
coming through
the window
it’s march things are
about to bloom

but first,

in
alcohol
I slip into the crazy

I can tell and
he notices

because as I walk
down the street
a cloud
pulls me away with
the shimmer of something
that is imagined

leaving me stranded
somewhere in between
my world and
the sidewalk

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