Prostitutes walk the street
And clash with white birds in tropical flight
Does this lend a purity to their gutter blood?
Or are they saints in corrupt and glamorous disguises?
The wind must speak their true names
Velvet panthers in the moist heat
Heavy curtain of ***
Falls upon the town in a warm wave
Surfers slowly lay their heads back
And are baptized by their girlfriends in the ocean

© Matthew Goff