fine then. limp away
stubborn in the gasnight,
a monologue howling in your eyes.
read depth by the warped fingers of
a shadow curled around redbrick
and the gutters between.
trace the tumbling cobbles with a vitriolic whimper,
your expulsion from a living home,
the gasping impasse of desert descending,
tread the stones to sand.
twirl in the streetlight,
the whorl of your gaze plotting the jaundiced scene –
canvas awnings bundled over tight–packed storefronts,
windswept moneywort and forget-me-not silhouettes in
third floor window boxes,
the moon, dim and round, fading his harem of stars.
at the end of your vision an archway,
an invitation on velvet,
another spot in the frame where
the light don’t hit.
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