My phoenix, lit dusky pink and grey blue;
she is wiser than her short days,
and dirtier.
It is Friday night but none know it
Steel grins over the city
slabs of paved meals
grab at shoe rubber
What is there to love about a place?
I try to hold it in front of me
but the concrete cracks too quickly
to reveal an ache below
In a contested park
bushes rise and fall with forbidden sleep
Dense southern air
adding weight to dreams
Woodruff Park sags into the twilit night,
one checker remaining
of the day’s heat and loss.
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