a crumbling repetition
of bones
sycophantic
the decorations on the inside
of my skin
an endless wishful thinking
quietly
the tram lines sing
bursting with
the emptiness of a
non-evening
a song
dyslectic steps
ballet
through puddles of defeat
metallic taste of blood
smashes all over
soles of feet
and tips of tongues
dripping
through wet
warm holes
digging tunnels of
preposterous hope
instead of mortar
bricks put together
with sadness and deceit
the hour howls
and so do all my restless
birds
condemned
to sleep