hours

hours

he wandered out of the blue

away from his shadow

and the window-frames leaned in

and the shadow stretched away

inside that hour where last notes quivered

above coffee in polystyrene cups

and all the other hours became indigo, violet

and you’d surely be rewarded

for your waiting in the not-dawn

of improbable light-beams,

when maybe he’d hold out his hand to you,

maybe not

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