Where to find a good cup of coffee in the morning dark
where those old friends cook up little brown sausages
for their own sake, leaving you a stranger to the
ways the holes get it; the holes burrow between you
and the nameless hands before you and the place
you want to call home. Fall on your knees and tell
her you love her like a jazz drummer loves
a fake-book, without loving the mouthpiece,
emphesymic. The bridge and cough cling
to the oral roof like shingles. We are the rain.
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