David Estringel

3 A.M.

at the Devil’s hour,
in the room made void
by your indentation
(my lamentation),
Sleep tantalizes,
echoing infernal lullabies
of leaky faucets
and bathroom-mirror punchings— 
my cradlesong. 

My love—red and hot—
sprawled on motley white walls 
and the cracked basin, 
like graffiti in disappearing ink, 
cascades to the sobering tile,
like icicles during Spring thaw—
leaving specters and tragedies
stitched in hands (and time),
rank with the smell of sweat and pennies.

Its 3:15—
knee-deep in the Devil’s hour—
only a quilt of coppery ghosts and shadow 
to keep me warm.
Where’s your affection
(my confection)
that silences the symphony of raining glass 
and pleas from my mind
(and scars),
crying for a new page? 


Originally published at Fugitives & Futurists

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