This street is lit like a fairy-tale
with shadows cutting at
triangle house tops and
golden windows perched in canvases, crooked.

These people talk at me with answers, in dream like fashions,
I am thinking of discerning what’s a whisper from a regret.

These fairy-tale streets make dreams of eyes not yet harassed
by miles of looking at time. I can see the perfect you
impressed in these orange leaves
hanging free in the dark night,
lit cautiously by old lamps.  I could stand here forever,
cold winds
catching my words and placing them on your lips.
Daring, my seconds here pass meaningless,
reasonless in fairy-tale make-up dress
And actor smiles to dance cues and rhythms
Written between dictating lines.

I could click heels down
this snowless-winter-grey pavement
with breath flying forward, pulling me
as I breathe you in, smell your skin as if it
were dirt in
forests after-rains.

I send you thoughts in lonely nights
expecting your open ear. Too far
to touch,
too close to tell you apart from a fast heart
or an obsessive
fairy-tale thought.

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