In clothes made ragged by design
to show the endless flaying of our souls
we walked lonely streets
never failing to draw the attention
of police and older men passing by.
Streets in Big City have their own shamans
who can turn the summer night
to a thing of ecstasy or dread.
Street Picture: power poles rise
like pillars of the temple.
Cryptograms lay hidden
in the signs of liquor stores.
Night fed upon our electricity
and our juices made forms in the air.
Trees reached up like skeletal hands
to grasp the toxic darkness
and held it close to the earth.
Fog hung motionless
like the vague words spoken.
We unwound that night
like threads of an ancient curse.
Left the strands there on the sidewalk,
and stepped quietly away.