Later, I’ll stamp and address my layers
to downtown.

I am on a hospital bed, a cotton headstone,
pining for Rhiannon, listening to The Engine Room:
the soundtrack of the cutters and the sew-by-the-numbers.

The panel glow is artificial,
the kin of many glazed, neon-front venues
framing crow-pacing avenues,
the birds, their profiles, the serious dark of a Mohawk
redefining the cyber, drinking the pale cider.

I want to glow with them. That is why I am here.


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