The west rests alone at moments of rise,
while holeproof hosiery and midnight rhymes
were built in these momentous afternoons.
we won’t look to the west when the sun comes to rise,
instead we’ll stand staring at white lined horizons,
with hands and breath held
as if this moment would transcend time,
leaving us there, on the roof top, forever.
And all too often
In the dark we’ll dance
too blinded by
pollution of light
to notice
the stags in the corner.
No one ever looks to the west during a sunrise.
We won’t look to the west when the city stirs,
no, not when the dust rolls in
covering our lives like
Father Hooper’s veil;
separation from the world,
but drawing closer to its ways and evils.
We’ll talk about change,
hopes
and dreams,
And feed our kids the same shit.
they’ll know right from wrong,
but no one looks west when the city stirs.
We won’t look to the west ‘til the sun fades,
And all existence is demanded its notice.
Our cities in darkened silence
forgotten, as brilliant
flashes of red fill the sky.
These aren’t the songs
for future generations
To sing, or sing about.
These are songs that begin,
the time we turn to the west to watch the sun fade.