There was an accident on South Street,
The night that old prostrate moon installed itself,
And held its breath.
I advocated for a new, calmer method
Of motivation—detached.
Wanting so accurately, my face, out in that long night,
Somewhere in that wreckage, had to see it.
But, in the dark, as you slept,
Demanded it from you.
Beyond those sirens, gazing, I saw,
In our house on that same darkened street,
Tonight’s silent, unvoiced boundary—
Your sweet, blackish hair slowly recharging itself.
Who diagnoses these memories,
And counts the hours of sleep's relentless poverty?
It is only me: dis-remembered and unhitched,
A collision under that same salient moon.
We’ve known each other far too much—
And, in fact, far too long—swallowing one another
Like mirrors on this dazed, nice planet.
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