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The night has cracked open
and after the spillage of burning stars
came a dead quiet
deeper than any buried treasure
and the street that has my footprints on it
has the dull sheen of charcoal
and looks as if it has loved before
and begs for a second try
while I down my second margarita
debating whether to order a third and stay
or ask for the cheque and go

The potency of the smoke
and guitar strains
make me wonder if I am still whole
or if I have been blended into the background
by an artist’s brush