The Moya View
The leaving night reveals the city’s imperfectionsin the reflecting crystal fires of the rising sun. Coffee brews in simultaneous percolations with the morning subway schedules.TVs switch on the 6am newscasters speaking the demon chants of the last day’s news. Knives descend on bread, sausage, eggsunaware of angel’s ascending in the new light.The last of glass bonfires dissipate in the falling sunlight, awaiting the pilgrims emerging from the abysses between cars.
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JONATHAN MOYA
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