Half of the street is still lost in the stupidity of night.
The houses are rat traps for women with tears
Drawn below their eyes. A hearse warming up, a dog
On his chain howling at the fog, fresh flowers in
The graveyard -- the morning is a waste of time.
An anxiety of wind messes up the parking lot.
Come evening, children throw a rock through the sunset.
There is also a bridge spanning a river of sweat that
a pregnant woman sings the blues from.
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