At the Grand Isle
in a search through driftwood
piles for a message
in a bottle
a syringe glanced
my shin
likewise, clearing thicket
at a housing site
we found tunnels,
an underground
city,
lanes where speed
thrived,
but where are the people
who left the needle
again stuck
in me?
Why did a metropolis
sustained by veins
of passion
dry--
have all of them
ascended?
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