963 Readings | 8 Ratings

Game 1

I lie here and the door is not locked.  St. Brigid,
without a moon, draped only in residual
street-light, is losing her edges – she doesn’t
complain. Compassionate ambulances
never say ‘die’. Across the hall,
someone remembers to lock their door. I
dream of apartments we didn’t take,
lions we will never hunt, and how,
when the moment is not quite right, you call.
Posted 10/30/10
first poem written in my new apartment at Pacific and Van Ness.
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