six am
on a sepia road
iced over
my headlights are soft
in the pitch parking lot
I wonder if those cops
at the coffee shop are going
to write me a citation for
weak or burned-out bulbs
at least my guts
are inside me
not fighting their way out
in sour pools of acid
working up my esophagus
and my nerves
aren’t fried this morning
no shakes
little earthquakes open up
the pavement borders
between the panels of sidewalk
underneath me when I
step around the city thinking of
her in the throes of agony,
puking and gripping the bowl,
doubled over and taut flesh around
her midriff wrinkled
into little fat creases,
long neck straining,
veins and beads of sweat
and goose bumps and nausea
an angel
poisoned
perfect
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