Lost Something
It was the cross of
Dundas barn dance, the
heavy-lead eyelash curls
and cleanly-pressed silver
buttons;
where it wasn't.
Waltzing in the neon haze,
trenchant poises cutting colours
of grease-walled balti houses,
it was easy to think of ourselves
highly,
as something tragic.
Movement of triggering slip,
crises stare you keep to yourself
the bound book of reasons for
the tempest of slack grey loafer
I
wore funeral ready.
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