Night Poem III

The night was a disobeyed memory,
and an animal of exquisite loss.

The day concealed burned love,
the ravaged architecture of my chest.

In the day I could imagine a
a breeze of human statues,

and words that connected me
to my own feet.

But the night was a disobeyed flute,
and I wanted to lie with it,

intently, alone,
and it held me in a dark music,

and poured me into an infinite sadness,
a memory of exquisite loss.

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