Grenada Street

There was no such thing
as weather before that night:

sullen clouds grayer than
the easy swing of her eyes,

heaviness of red petals
lost to cobblestone gutters.

Orange light barely illuminates
our desperation to rip apart…

We drink black night into kaleidoscope
views, haunted harmonica

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

gulping our red-roofed lips away
from each other, every last drip

without electric pools to reflect
stars coming out to breathe,

buried behind haze for too long,
or not long enough.

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