Le Crepulescent

This agéd Brooklyn.

Crepulescent.

It made the evening before this

tire with arthritis.

The bricks from the buildings

unfeeling

to feed for the rodents of winter.

I watched a rat

run across the platform at 7th Avenue.

I held your veiny hand tightly.

This place was reliquary.

You pressed your big breasts into me closely

and we kissed

with your sour alcohol breath dominating

the air of squalor.

It’s fermentation was so Earthling.

I knew you could do no wrong.

So I looked to your bloodshot blue eyes

as if fresh flowers in a field I would not

visit that summer or next.

The pretension of New England

I never understood.

So clothed

and aching to be naked.

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