My hidden muse,
My sodden sun,
Friend to outcasts,
Tripped of lounge music,
Shadowed and awakened
Reciever,
That space of twilight,
That hour between.
Turning in blue rails
We never see,
Peach and palmetto
Lisping in the sun.

My, this blue chip of loss,
Such passionate warfare,
I pale next to it's preponderance,
Of light years lying low
In the lowlands,
A flit of light upon the screen,
The first firefly this hot
And lonely season,
Self imposed by the Constable
Of Sonnets,
A priest of Psalms
For your rainy day.
I'll walk barefoot to the swings, Drink beneath the tree in the cool, wet grass
As the moon rises, slicing
The clouds in the last
Pink Vista of the sun,
While sonic booms and
Pennywhistles aft in the
Forefront of this visceral
Institutions along Route 41
Looking for the burned edges
Of Americana dying
In the grass.
We'll sojourn along the breaks and Alps,
Waiting on the ghost train
Vibrating up the rails
As we speak, Before it's whistle falls away to the place never seen behind the sun.