These January Nights of Ours - by Craig Turnwall

soft whimpers change the blinds of our windows
pull them slowly down
on the sill where Bodhisattva rests on a single nail
head; perched ache of our night fence

lamped with eerie glows of heatron idols, knelt toward
chair back splattered dusty like a mere naked wraith
is where the cup still sits
your lips wrapped around glass, outer storms and visions

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