(Russell J Turner)
Pachyella violaceonigra
A shadowed bookshop on a narrow street
is vanished when you seek it out again,
the smell of sunrise on the fading rain
is gone before you disentwine the sheets,
existence pouring through a fragile heat
will fan a fleeting universal flame:
the midnight disco cannot be constrained ‒
ephemeral yet everlasting beats.
Precisely at eleven fifty-nine
the drunkenness and revelries are come
to paint some scent of heaven on the vine
with powders, promenades and sexual fun.
But use your poisons wisely in the time ‒
it fades into the dark at twelve oh-one.
RJT
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