my thorny Palo Verde tree
the streetlamp’s enough to see
the air has finally chilled
and the dying moon is coming
to rescue us swathed in scarves
to hide her lover’s beatings
and only the snip of my pruners
biting through another branch
as the cat comes out and lies down
safely in the middle of the road
we are that abandoned that alone
until a
thorn catches my thumb
the blood
dripping out black in
in this still
light I had to write it
all down for
you to come
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