Drug Summer
what blood propels
the swivel of moths
blind Poseidon
any dumb light will do
for the washing of the dead
the dark sire of crickets
derelict jukebox
that weighs in my stomach
in the absence of good times
in the Orangery, broken of glass
only a stone’s throw away
from the junkie’s hot now
an old favorite that plays
like a wound stuck on repeat
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