Vermeer Corridors

In bed-sit heaven
It’s half-past eleven
At night.
Vermeer corridors
Dimly lit
Hide sleeping whores.
Hearing snores
From skin pores,
Ignored chores.

Written as a sixteen-year-old with Rimbaudian pretensions, when all I thought made a good poem was a rhyme. Twenty years later, I probably still believe that.

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