![](https://static.wixstatic.com/media/56019e_0573e6dbe651416497572fc09a314fb7~mv2.png/v1/fill/w_980,h_980,al_c,q_90,usm_0.66_1.00_0.01,enc_auto/56019e_0573e6dbe651416497572fc09a314fb7~mv2.png)
Still stung, still staggering streets at night,
sometimes with feet, most times with mind,
where smoke from chimneys twists and turns,
throws silhouettes of lips unlearned
and someone from the ether smiles
till somewhere more important burns.
I wander squares and lanes and groves
past modest mice, conceited crows;
primeval ploys, pursuits of friends
who weave me down the deepest ends
to wither, shadow, curse, decry,
apologize (would make amends).
A further figure shimmers, waves,
predestinies of primrose glades
mistakable for few things else,
though either by deceit or stealth,
I'm left to stagger streets at night,
sometimes with feet, all times by self.
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