Meanwhile on the 64th

In forests of half-grown trees wet moss relents and whimbrels ring.

Ashore smokey bays the sea breeze breaks through creaking daylight-swallowed nights

As humid bleakness fills with karaoke chants and clashing glass and Hot Dog smell.

Drizzly nights silence limegrass-rhythms in pitch-black sand and grow stronger as they

Knock on drunken wooden pubs bursting with biting whiskey sounds.

Cold stiff hands smell of scarlet wild thyme on the path to Hell’s backdoor before

Hot limp lulled bodies drift through fir green algaeous ponds and

Wait for cloud curtains to reveal green glaring paper-streams on midnight skies.

I’m wide awake on the 64th.

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