I dreamed about
the man who wrote about
the place where you could
stand to see the place
where the tide
turned
I turned you out
ignored your raging shout
eyes shut I knocked on wood
and tipped my wet face
toward where outside
burned
the line's still there
I guess I still care
but I’ve never been
to see with my own eyes
whether they’re the right
kind
I give a hard stare
know that nothing’s fair
in the city of sin
all the name implies
pronounce the last insight
blind
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