At four, the streetlamps gutter like votive coins,

At four, the streetlamps gutter like votive coins,
each cobblestone a lullaby, each shutter a held breath.
The city is a fossil, its spine of steel and glass unpeopled.
A stray cat, black ink, pours itself into an alley’s throat.
The last taxi hums, a trapped fly in amber.
I am the only clock unwinding in this velvet hour.

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