My silver-belt-buckled cast’s shadowed pearls
Whitening the dirt of the dawn’s damp floor—
Reservations @Dorsia, Nagel’s girls’
Lightning-wit third-eyes blinking them Selves sore—
This is how one night turns a life into
“This”. Is ev’ry burn I felt-and-knew now
A sliver of (l)earning spent? Is my thrift
Plaid like what my grandfathers my age wore?
Spectres smearing their opaque heir white with
Handheld words—tension-cut banners of war—
Fists sit low, each—yearning peace—they subdue.
Lit fists glow—The Red & the B(l)ack-flow, somehow
Al(r)ight, ignites me, (d)itching F(l)ame to know:
How’d I survive? Does my (he)art-chive show it?
Alexandria’s slow-burning Thoreau,
I’m not returning to [what I’ll omit].