12:35
Going on a Ginsberg binge, you thought,
laughing to yourself in the boxcar coming
home with a ubiquitous need for rum
and nicotine stained sheets.
A vagabond looks,
always, you utter,
for contained patterns in nature.
And like the beginning
of a Fibonacci code,
your train pulls in
at 12:35. Just in time
for you to finish smearing
a message in your own
breath on the window, saying
how your head feels waterlogged
nowadays. You step off the platform
and continue on, flinching
as you regain footing
to chase after
a backwards moving dream.
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