That’s a dark so prolific
No one stands up to there
No sodium lamp-post
No long-range trains, stuck up at signal
No truck headlights,
No urchin’s flamboyant bike.
There that stands most significant
Is the shadow of one’s own face.
There the quests are at loggerheads
And more pronounced than the hum
Of the dearest of women.
There the atmosphere is pierced
To raise a chesty bird aloft
Wakeful at height, day and night
And defies every stroke of brush
Into the tarnish of meaninglessness.
