Blues wash boughs but black still keeps
in the kitchen ‘spite the lights
toasting coffee donut creams;
when bird portraits lost come ‘live,
when the slumber cinemas
play still, till they’re suddenly
breached by scents o’ cinnamon
& the neon digit 3.
Walk across the sweating grass,
through the chilly wind o’ glass—
soon skies take off beauty masks.
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