There is no zip code for her,
no snugshut windows
no locked doors keeping back the dark.
No walls to hang a calender,
and there is no reflective glass
or bathroom mirror she would dare to look into…
The Edges of Society,
that all sounds much neater,
and more finely mapped,
than it is.
to dwell there
isn’t a matter of address,
of forwarding mail,
of deciding between curtains or mini blinds.
It’s not hiring a creaking moving van
with cracked vinyl seats.
It’s both a clutching,
and a letting go,
but you don’t jerk awake before the impact.
There is no last second saving you from the repeated collisions,
and the constant bruising,
and the notches chipped from your spine,
are the only way of marking the time….
The drinkers hour,
the hour of…
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