Morrison wrote
a prayer
for some American
he didn’t know.
All read it after those words
fell as ink
on a page
like California rain.
Was it as Lord
or New Creature
when I ran laps
around my rooftop
balcony’s rail
to wonder slowly
between quick steps
if there was time
for a laugh
at faces
on my neighbors
as I passed
their windows
as I fell
to an end of days
to that sidewalk
where some ancestor
carefully engraved
a bleeding penis.
Morrison drowned
before Bastille Day
his words
buried in Pére Lachaise
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