Refuge.
I cower from the bright room and white eyes.
Retreat to the dark curve of my lover’s thighs.
From the cold march down a black street,
I return home to my lover’s lies:
Relax baby, tomorrow we’ll wake up and the world’ll be perfect.
And if it’s not, I’ll fry you taotons, and wake you with milk-spoon-warm caress.
I awake to a frosted window
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