Like Hitchcock,
These dark things appear,
This darkling,
This darkling down.
Some conjured from shadow,
Others crawl up the psyche.
Slings of recognition,
Lust in pink light,
These pounding Marauders,
They are here
They are gone,
While light and darkness
Subsist forever.
This still silent pen,
This flowing aromatic,
This sparse confessional,
This alchemy of logic
And light.

Shadows, like Hitchcock's Vertigo,
Falling to the still image,
Brushes of black and light.
And you light a cigarette,
Prowl the room like a leopard.
And the trains run East to West,
And somehow this comforts you.
And the sun roars against the window,
Your face,
Gliding up the road,
You think Of Yeats,
Poe, the Shaw Of Iran,
Perestroika, Persian Rugs,
You know your friends,
You know your enemies better,
You keep a mental list,
Cross check it to later entries.
Listen to Bortok and Liszt,
And the lights come up in the theatre,
You make your way to the car
As streetlights shine in the mist,
And rain dots the windshield
As cars hiss up the street.