Oh and the midnight boy teeters
with his yellow crown like a cymbal!
‘round the ennyhoos at the market
hoo-rah or boo-hoo-hooing. . . .
                                                     oh boy

beetlebrowing the barelyskirted girls
and gritting teeth, an imaginary rose-stem. . . .

Him, them, no tricks left: a partition ahead
Roped by an archaic madness under gas-lit halo

A ferocity bent like a triangle. Or a tuba.
And looking through to Xanadu

What does he spy? He is the moon’s lonely
lamp above a deserted parking lot

Deserted. . .
Save for the old green wagon
2 bodies inside, radio on.