Curing the Meet
There is
illness
and dis-
ease---
the distance
of a cross
hair
or a
breath---
under which
we dread
to greet
each
Azreal
or sweeper
on the street
--lest--
our exchange
be life or death
shot out
in the open air
better scurry
across the alley
and down
the stair--
where we’d like
to believe
amidst all
anxiety
there is
yet a safe
place here
--hanging
out
alone---
on the rack
2020 APR 1
9
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