Grenada Street

There was no such thing
as weather before then:

sullen clouds grayer than
the easy swing of her eyes,

heaviness of red petals
in the cobblestone gutters,

orange light barely illuminating
our desperation to rip apart…

The electric pools reflect
stars coming out to breathe,

buried behind haze for too long,
or not long enough, we drink

black night into kaleidoscope
views, haunted harmonica

dancing in the wind with him
as he goes into the front range,

gulping our psychedelic lips away
from each other, every last drip.


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