the black-streak, bag-eyed husbands move waiting to be widowed by the pa**ing of familiar skies and all we've come to know our shadows have my sympathy for they must never wish to be joined beneath, unwillingly our endless, restless feet so praise be the break of day when we run out of things to say we'll learn to speak in different ways
and plea with cities to be breathing for beauty made them bend and sway we'll learn to speak in different ways our lust's caught frozen in a streetlight our indecision rides atop the crow it burned out, blackened, turned to ash and blew away to embers far too bright to see and not there enough to weigh