I can only think of it. I can only
reel: waving from the rail, gazing
across vitreous water—it rose
above the landscape and heavy fog,
a landscape itself: lights, colors, passions...
On shore that night we walked, barefoot,
the dirt streets and drank in tin bars.
Rain fell and thundered while urchins
stole our change. Devils watched from
little tables as we grew mythic, too
subtle to annoy the bartender—laughing,
disheveled, our wings like fallen bra straps.
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