smoke spiralling toward a retired ceiling fan
long exhausted, still spinning
over shaded stucco,
worn and grey as home.

I'm remembering black lipstick, eyes locked
far away, at the peak of a phantom cathedral roof 
built so much higher than this apartment
in a space between the cracks,
in a place of sunken, silent ships,
queued onwards and thru sonic trances
as the thought of midnight ...

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