North Lincoln Avenue

The same piles of freight sit outside the window. /I pour another from the bottle, glassful of jinxes,/a remake ,each time it takes,/ to quash a roomful of victims, this place they found to breed in. Free from disease, crimson, this flock plays for keeps./They are brass, set in stone relief./ Animals ,accustomed to their cages/they leave, to meddle with water./They brush by strangers in a lunch stand,they feel odd about their God. The shades drawn on afternoon sunlight ,/source of graceful flickers./The way their arms stretch before them,/a certain message to their moves./Telegrams, from birds we painted./Once again I head downstairs,/ jam machines guarding cream pies./Dressed by habit,/for war on the Sabbath,/I enlist you in my feud./Mannikins that live by night/they linger in the distance,/vagabonds who wait for rings/from brass bells on bright name plates

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