look for me at night

On a couch
made of clouds,
like a mist in a dream,
it will come to you
and you will hasten

in shoes made of dusk
running headlong
into the dark,
trampling unseen,
out of control
toward an intuition.

Stars crisp against
the black sky
will melt the brown
low clouds like butter,

the worm moon
will point you
to my ashes.


It wasn't
        the slut curl
                or up-shot
                        thigh slide
    that steeled me,

but the staccato,
                knees as I
                        leaned in from
    the ticket taker.

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