Duct tape on a fridge handle
keeps it hanging on for ages.
File cabinets full of people’s names
shake and whisper
when there’s nobody around.
A string of towns, all no more
than eight miles apart,
exchange flesh and blood
between them and it
sustains them through
the decades into centuries.
No more nights out in the numbing
lights and bottle rain,
those days will not appear again.
I will nail the letters I get back from her
to the bathroom wall
to skim over while I’m pissing.
The noise of flow into stagnation
will not cover my recited words.
I will be driven to deep dreams
of her until I sleep forever,
and even then I am not sure
if she won’t find me there,
emerging from the thick mist
of my morning.
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