Let the bullshit poems begin. This one is particularly awful.
Morning
All the buildings on this gray street have turned their bellies
up. We deserve this, you said, while fingering their foundations
tunneled through by ants and the buds of vines reaching up
through cement to this cloudy sky. The woman the police
came for, the one alone on the first floor, the one with the air
conditioner missing from her window bars, she was
dead by then, and you still decided to walk down that night
to the café on the corner like those kinds of things
just happened to you. Wind through her apartment below
us like water through a sewer. Some bird shrilled the hell
out of the next morning, but you slept right through it.
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