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Douglas Cole Late night maybe morning heading home through wet dark streets under the glow of fleur de lis lanterns with their minaret globes she climbs the stairs the carpeted smell of years to enter a room overlooking the gray slate rooftops and redbrick chimneys and that one lone tower under the blood smear of clouds in a smoky predawn haze to fall fall back upon a bed after the search that yielded nothing now this now hearing the crazy neighbors and other voices and one sound like a trumpet call like a wish for death and sweet release through the bottom of the well of elusive sleep with a ghost at the door and water traveling through the pipes in the wall


Two Thirds North 2014