Linger, Renee

O my foregone conclusions, O my
ache of Spain, you’re gone
lay me low old Queen Coal: I thought
you would linger, Renee. Face
darkens under skies torn asunder,
I wear your foot-a-bed stockings
like a lace bandage and sniff
at the rain as it begins to fall.

Bayard St., San Diego, c. 1987

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