Look out the window, am I there?
Street lamps as stemless wine glasses the lights are sentinels
raining the avenue dust as snow.
Threaded the dark is, with blunted color as though the painter
smudge the canvas with a pinky
finger and fought with the brush, a jaguarundi inside the hand,
trying without much luck to push
a brilliant Frida or Gogh from out the feathery tip – it’s just one
of those determined nights born.
One of those nights where there’s a canyon seperating myself
from my itchy old pencil stopped.

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