the clock shifts and time crashes into molten wax
from dwindling candles.

there's a sign on the sidewalk saying Last Call
as the wind picks up, rushing us back to our homes

to say goodnight in that starry night. i pour myself another glass of wine
and point it out to the man, telling him that if all were all okay

this would be milk from my mother's breasts;
this would be milk from her breasts if i could at all

decimate the walls and fences covered with grape vines.

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