(11/26/1971 / New York)


Nothing ever grows here
in the darkness
where memory is just a gossip
with a mean tongue
hovering over the tea and smoke

I'm digging in the wrong dirt
getting dirty for nothing
because Spring will never come
the calendar plays February
over and over
like a sleeping DJ

You've managed to find the sun
flown to tomorrow, a homecoming of sorts
it's easy to imagine
the postcards you haven't sent
glossy photos of chaotic cities
and streets teaming with life

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