Electric Lights

The selfish unawareness of
a window painted blue, and
electric lights that won’t reflect
but sound so clearly overdue.
It permeates the smell of sanitation and
of jaundice under skin

that has been peeled away by saline soldiers,
crawling on their knees
across a bridge of gathered lives.
Maybe this time-
she’ll sound so much better
in a sweater, than this dress
that leaves her back exposed
so all the coldest
air can make a nest.

All the stabbing, all the dripping,
all the fevers and the cries,
and poorly picked out tiles
on the wall have watched
a million maidens die
(underneath electric lights).

She’s so mixed up like metaphors, it’s
better for her, but
when all the shallow echoes fall
and settle in her cheeks
she’s still demanding all that I can V.

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