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Poem: "Noche Triste," My Street. 


We part in the beginning
and meet at the end of each day

The rocky path behind the church
and I
where dogs shit in the shadows
and dead pigeons lay
by the force of those who are
“going places.”

My glare shifts right
and eye
catches sight of two faces
white-washed between the sun
and the closed doors
of timeless holy places.

With frenzy they grip, grope
and grasp one another
for the last
handful of promise
eyeful of daylight
as shadow creeps in....

The day ends in a sigh.

Empty and hopeful are
the church,
the people,
the path,
and I

Who part in the beginning
and meet at the end of each day.

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