This world concludes at three am,
The graveyard hour when hobos finally recede into
Cardboard or spikenard crèches;
I don’t know; but other boys are piling like dragons
Through her bedroom windows:
Just in the middle of high school and having a
Parade: Or I don’t know,
Lying underneath a time share of your opulent shade:
I drink my last ration of rum, and touch my face,
And prepare to embark down the dead end road of your
Unconscious embrace.
The Dead End Road Of Your Unconscious Embrace
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