friday evening

sleep falling upon heavy grass

stars dripping

honey from a soupy sky

a belly full of heartache

mixed with orange rinds

a long branch extends its fingertips

touching hands with lovers

who read bedtime tales

a speakeasy pours a shot

for anyone with an imagination

frustrated ghosts bump their heads against the wall

nervous surveillance

before they can relax and rub their bums

this insistent humming grows melodious notes

stops shaving its legs

i try not to laugh while telling you these things

there are poets howling at the moon

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