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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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