The night, a storm
on your lips, spoke in footsteps
that creak overhead
midnight's libraries.

Sleep, let the hurricane
recoil over the hills.

To the east, calm, where clouds
stir like smooth fingers and rust spills
from the sky a hard stare. 

In mock anger,
when we hide in the mud
beneath our feet,
we must abandon the city 
like a song on tired lips.


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