Here we live
among blue-stone lanes
leading between walls
into the shadow city.

Dancers depart the clubs
after dark in their tall shoes,
clattering on the curb.

The watcher in the high window
counts the hours,
boiling a brew on a stove.
The ledge above the range
supports framed portraits.

Etched eyes follow the guests
among the furniture
come from summer into winter
down under the earth
where we whirl widdershins.

Blue figures spattered on white walls
leap and twirl, dive and crawl,
and fade as the stars fade,
exposing spines and skulls.

I call to them as they spin
clockwise into noon,
leaving the gate unlocked,
their voices lingering in the wind.

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