Metropolitan Diary

Larry Narron

In this city where shoplifters

stand watch over bootleg

bazaars, pickpockets navigate

rivers of neon that warp


what’s seen at eye level

by the crowds as we ooze

in flows that scrape against

one another. What silent


episodes passed in the weeks

that went by without entries?

False prophecy of weathermen.

Sketches of a flip book


moon under my thumb,

its cold white rind peeled back

to reveal black fruit, bitter

night, yet young, not yet ripe. 




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