An Assumption

 

You like the dark things,
all covered with barnacles
like a mussle-shell.

Drawn to death,
you are in-folded
like a casket.

Streets damp with blood,
whores painted to walls
like murals.

The moon is a distraction,
not neon stars, not
theater strangers—

Two men
hug you with smoke:
assume your value
by the
way
you
reflect
light.

Published in Goblets, Summer 1983

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~ by danielwrasmus on April 24, 2010.

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