doesn’t matter that
our snobish suburb has become
the loneliest, emptiest place
while the big city still
palpitates in the distance
like a gushing fatal wound

doesn’t matter that
even the birds have
deserted this forsaken spot
and that the autumn wind,
tousling the dark pines,
blows harder in order to
leave as fast as possible

doesn’t matter that
I feel hungover like
on Sunday mornings back
when I was twenty and
had danced all night,
only this time I ain’t,
sadly, and I haven’t

doesn’t matter because
when everything seems
too heavy and hollow for
my shoulders, suddenly
a newborn morning
lashes out and crowns
you with melted gold

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