Getting frisky

Take a chance, if you must.
Dance your secret dance
in powdered alleys
as night hangs its stars out to dry.
Meanwhile, the roof of your mouth
catches fire. Guttural noises
from the sewers, striving
to become a name perhaps?
flitting about and landing
instead upon the lap
of the abstract. Another old hat
trick for the garbage choirs.
The bright solace you’ve sought
mires you in innuendo,
but anyway, how’s the rest of this
supposed to go? And where?

-r. miller

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