NOIR

I could write a hundred poems
about the look of your sleeping face

here where the wood stove waits

for fast-approaching winter

I’m on the floor in front of your couch

surrounded by books of poetry

kept company by the constant hum

of our modern age and the ageless

sound of your breathing

not even Sam Spade could unravel

the intricate mystery of how

we came to be here tonight
but as soon as you walked into the cafe
I knew you were trouble


Jason Crane

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