the lowly moon
verily traipse still
scalding hot light on ill-tempered motor hums
the snare of the muffled sound
the ecstasy of its incandescent flare

streets fat with fools
streets fat forever
streets squandered
by tiresome motion
in perpetual hymn
the wingtip of candle-flame
swaying like
a skirt of that one girl
i kept looking at
in a pub in Chicago

moon bellowing yellow chorus
singing flat tones
of death
mine to hear pining away from
its cunning edge

i've none to offer
anyone
but
despair.