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M a r k R e e p
February is a Tarkovsky film
blur of headlights through a hush
of falling snow. Like they say
it’s always night or worse.
Another ashen dawn in a cold room
stepping over strangers snoring
on the floor. There’s no hot water.
The cold tap spits rust. You light
the day’s first, write your new name
on the breathfogged mirror:
Noroki. Out here nobody
knows different. Why not?
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