This town waits for the crescent bloom, the nightfall poultice that forgets us:

In slow grooves we circle our graves.

It secrets the cracks in our walls and sits by the fireside and listens to the ticking clock

And carries with it, its moss and damp breath,

Lumbering through the streets

Like a dog forlorn and drags the fog behind it.


This town once crooned to midsummer night

And rung church bells,

But now it droops and rests at a bus stop.

When on window panes were speckled drowsy  raindrops

And children in tiny rivulets

Flowed up the hill

This town was eavesdropping.


Maybe we have grown too old to see the monster

And now we keep it at our bedside chained

So our secrets will stay there to rot

But the town scratches at the leg,

Implores the rain to come visit again

But knows the rain was never its friend.


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