the siding, ripped by wind
chipped off by dried bird shit.
In the dark the marks are invisible.
The city dims. So do voices:
they recede into ivy plants
the green turned a deep navy blue,
shiny. Maybe Benny the homeless
rock man polishes them in daytime
In the wee hours they shout
into our iron-wrought window:
THE TIME HAS COME...
what is he saying? Is he crazy?
WE ALL MUST SEE WHAT IS NEXT.
LOOK FOR THE COMING OF IT.
I pick deep, black berries,
hundreds of them, that disappear
with disappearing fragments of sun,
until the thorns hide rustles of raccoons
and shadow people drinking beer.
I wake up in the morning, fall asleep
at night. It is the only thing to do.
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