It becomes colder within than outside,
the tint of mist disappears from glass houses;
demurred by sunlight, the moans
of diabolical lovemaking
soften to a fade, utopia dissolves
like sugar in a teacup, melts like butter
on warm toast, ends like an elusive song
playing off an accidental radio signal.
is white noise. Screechy.
The grease dries off the wheels
of time. The body writhes in unfamiliar bed.
The day subsumes you from the very beginning.
Life, whole in sleep, hereby shred
into apportionment's of living. For ravens.
Ode to evening. Gleaming with bright
lights and homing signals. Oases
upon oases of electrical fluorescence
as far as your eyes can see, which is
not very far, because of the concrete.
In the Main Square, rivers of aliens
descend from invisible vortexes...
Mostly young, mostly male
specimens of race, and rumbunctious
with ephemeral rage, jostle to stop them.
A vague, passing image from the window
of your train of consciousness. You descend
only when you reach home. Turn off
Sleep arrives like a gust of wind.
A whim lingers on, masquerading
as epiphany. Extinguishes like candle.
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