in my eastbound concrete shoes -
far south of my ascent
is just north of my dismay…
like a star chart... sworn to astrologies
averse to the common tongue
of our mute disarray.
meanwhile -
our enchantments tarnish
by the light of day.
the real dream
detached from harm
by evil moons -

and doubtless  only blooms
by candlelight
at the rare hour
between now and
then

but on the dot
in a trench,