You pull down the shade
In the arc of the sun,
And nothing happens
And everything does.
And it's highway robbery
With stinking trucks
Grinding up the street,
Whil fan blades whir
And Madagascar
Sinks to the sea.
You learn out the window
Sliucing dreams in moonshine.
This symphony
Of broken bottles,
Shadows and fences
And garbage can lined alleyways.
And I'm thinking
I'm on to something-
Beyond the region,
Some revelation
And the addle minded,
Those saddled to the outskirts
It's really circular sensors
And half moons
And Christmas
And Thursday before payday,
As the moon pores silver,
And I dream
Like a Persian cat.