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night comes

night comes
gilded foil on the atmosphere,
purple rust in blue air,
the smell of settling exhaust,
city structures sway, as they did
all day,
we now take notice.

the gentle, and the absurd
the slight.
the slight, and the tender
the moderate.

the night is tender and not horrendous
because it's not just me in it.
the horrors of my loneliness
haunt me less even if despair does,
my occupation as a poet is to
translate hormonal neurochemical chains
into substantives.

i try to make feelings
argumentative
we must decide, we must know
we must discuss what to do,
reconcile how far we have come,
and how it is our own fault,
touch - gently as it were,
from skin.

pretend as though this night
and its smells
are sign and signification. 

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