I have crept into Sunday morning,
around the rocks of Saturday’s night,
through the back door of one o’clock;
your words have haunted me
all along the wide awaking day
and have put my sleep to sleep.
For more of their kind
I would strip stone towers of their manhood,
cast angels into the deepest dark,
tear up the concrete street city
with my bare, hamfisted hands -
anything - to breathe in once again
what you have thought to say.
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