can i have your telephone number

so we all put on garments

& danced into a night

rain-lashed / &

something geometrical

about our lives as compared to souvenirs.

that was in the 1900s,

somewhere

dark mud

brilliantly lit

by blind panic. said fuck i’m cold

yet it was a beautiful winter coat

& murderers adored you

your fingernails twinkling like stars

inevitably the same. 

events occurred 

a few years later. we all grew wings

& floated over the streets of a city

populated by violinists & butchers.

i kept calling you by name

which was sort of your name but not exactly. now

i’m listening to the wind bite its own ears in the trees

a few birds chirrup

the walls of the house creak

rain falls through a hole in my head.

but it was a magical time, wasn’t it.