The city sleeps at the crack of dawn
when the neon lights wash out and the lemon lights
spread higher. The tired faces blink into new
tired ones. Wrinkles write stories on skins
and cotton
in lines of poetic injustice.
The prince dies after slaying the dragon
of smokes and subway. The apple falls
and cracks open Snow White’s head
after she sings to the homeless. The lines
rarely rhyme. Realize
we can never truly be altered.
Modified maybe. I think
you like the color of blood too much,
on my nails and lips and hair.
And in my eyes?
Sharks sense blood 4,828 meters away,
or so they say. If a gazelle painted itself with rouge, it would be caught
dead. Unless, of course, there is a poppy field.
Will you plant a poppy field?
Give me somewhere to hide
please. Or allow me to cover myself with pigments
and illusions
of green, blue, hazel,
black. Olive, navy, maroon,
the ink in which I dip my brush.
Don’t be angry with me
I beg you after you fall asleep
(Before you wake up)
to give me a little more time.
Just until the clock strikes seven thirty,
and once I adjust, alter, amend
I will never again be the same.