wet gutter stone
submerged in the rill
blackheavy and round
and the weight beneath me:
a smooth cold killer of light
night is a forest,
a wet banquet of noise
small epiphany’s happening at street lights
and wild-life electric
far off, the radio’s
occasional violence
hits at the melancholy,
as it hangs with urban drifters
in patches and dank foul sifting air
night is a forest,
a jungle of audible character, where
indifference is personal and danger intimate
yet still,
even as light and shape struggle to hold meaning,
there are momentary glimpses
that glisten with yearning
in un-rendered semaphore
dawn’s message of hope
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