image: Dorothee Lang's 'Shifts'
better than Ezra you read my proposition at 5 a.m.
rained bike by your fence, fallen glove on ice &
broken doorbell to the fine prints of my fingers.
you expect a gust of warm air into your room
if i fall through frames to die. to die at dawn
& to circle your steps in black streams till
you open the gate to leave home & enter
the future. everyday. without me.
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