somewhere in balington drive

you’re every

city street

i picked tender

flowers out from

the ones that

bloomed from

the footsteps

you left behind

on rough pavement

as sodium lights

slept and doors

closed to the rhythm

of a hypnogogic

reverie—hush

but not quite still

silhouettes shifted

bodies left imprints

some alleyways

left a window open

for latecomers

and lost stragglers

and outsiders

i being one of them

but there are no

open anythings for me

only the bitter taste

of neon grey and

a last-minute wave

as you held your breath

and the flowers fell

from my shaky grasp

but there was no one

else around to pick

them back up

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