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In Defense of Melancholy
At least once a week
I walk into the city of bricks
where the rubies grow
and the killers await
the coming of doves and cats.
I pass by the homes of butchers
and their knives sharpened by insomnia
to the river of black sails
and the torn-up sea and the teeth of dogs.
She waits for me in a narrow bed,
watching the rain
that gathers on the broken street
and the weak light of dusk
and the singing trees.