I waited
In the strictest sense,
In my best attire,
With borrowed hours.
To pass time,
I counted stars,
And paused at blur-three hundred.
The moon was familiar,
The shrapnel that lined the sky an ominous calling
I dreamt.
Until everyone was a glassy reflection in a bent silvery sliver spoon.
All and sundry passed,
In a long, drunken samba
With limbs and limbs and pairs of feet
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