Tintinnabulations of brick, rust-colored light
Under the moon, your eyes look soft
Night music, a resting thing
Slower, farther, more patiently droplets walk up the back
Dreams like missing criminals, books like smokers' fingers
Your neon gait as you stride forward to the sheets
The ice of our closing eyes; wide, size; talk with your hands
Brick, brick, brick, night.
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