Train horn in the night
it does not ask... it does not see.
but with blackened hands
pulls at silence until it speaks.
it is the confession of silence in
the still of the night.
it is the confession of the married
man starting his car in another drive
way across town.
it is the confession of the builders
faulty pavement that lies cracked
and smells of urine and spilt malt
liquor on lincoln and 5th st.
it is the confession of the red bearded
tattoo artist named saul who loves silk
paintings of jesus last supper.
it is the confession of you and me as
we roll over to the other side of the
mattress, our lesser angels
broken hours before..
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