somewhere even hummingbirds sleep

When I should have been writing about a street corner.


The number dwindle
The clock ages almost cross 12
And the radio talks about a bell jar.

The desert is still and warm,
somewhere even hummingbirds sleep.

Your eyes blur
when you think about travel
and if you let it all get away,
somehow you woke up and you had let it get away.

Treasure the warm moments you have remaining,
and try to remember a time, an undertow
a slight fear.

As the room empties, the parties thin
and a slight fear that your words will stay in place
until next time

(whenever that is)

Blurred eyes, a desert waits in the distance
and a Night Ride when you had somewhere to go


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