Sometimes the light stays on all night. I wonder who in the silent house attracts ghost cars so fervently. Maybe gamblers, sharing in a cloud of yellow brandy, losing to the circular tendencies of cards. Maybe a harem, or a spiritual healer.
Spill onto the lawn
moths to a slice of window
everything leans in
Snow falls slowly tonight, without disruption, the light is on. Tonight the moon dips toward the shabby roof, light dots far behind repeat an invitation. One more parking spot in the yard.
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