Witness

W
Because the dark suit is worn it is worn warm
with a black tie
and a kiss at the head of the stairs

When you hear the dark suit rip
on the heart’s curb the hurt is big
rose flesh caught on the orange woman’s buttons

As you talk metropole monotone
antique intelligence
as you dress wounds by peyotl looming the boulevards
women hunt their children from you
who look out
lit still inside of a dark suit
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