Our eyes blink
in time to the beat of a song

playing on a old radio with

one dusty mesh fabric eye,

each note is a strand of
hair woven in Morse Code

a hand wrapping on on
a window sill,

two thoughts that converge
somewhere between

two wounded glances,
two pint glasses

on an empty bar,

in a tavern which exists
only in the meat of night,

to a mood set by the somber,
echoing cries of two coyotes

stranded across a canyon of stars.


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