Weather Inside a Diorama 

I search for intimacy
on a footbridge
that’s been mute
for too many pink nights

then the tunnel
stares me down

I want to ratchet up
a conversation
without echoes
with only the left ear

participating
what’s really going on

with those brain damaged
Americans in Havana’s hotels
the answer sounds so jade
when you say it

I can’t even pronounce
the color of your sonic terror

the one you left to rot
in a backpack overnight
it gets so sticky
with morning inside

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