here in the north city
here in the north city the world grows gold.
the wind tranquillizes us, points at a monolith
& says
come deep into this red house
with your broken windows
to set toothing bare in the frames¯
pulling our lonely coats closer
there is a note crumpled in the pocket
next a fist:
lines are written on it &
small craters drawn &
it tightens, folds like a raisin
or an old drum.
the day isn't really that cold
the small oaks rustle & fade,
but the note translates:
zero soon zero soon
KS
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