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Again, We Are Lucky And Unlucky

In by Chris on July 13, 2010 at 6:16 pm

My dreams are of bedbugs
And they keep me just beneath
The point of falling asleep.
Maybe I can hear them emerge,
Tiny like the cigarette butts
That seep into every sodden corner
Of the parks I daily clean.
Weeks through thick glasses;
I wonder which is which.
This city hurts me;
It inspires and deserts me.
My aspirations the blowing fog
Or the men that built these streets.
Without the nights
Waiting for bedbug bites,
My love for the city would string
Into an elevator’s arc
Beyond the happy parks
To somewhere fantastic,
Where energies paint the Golden Gate.


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