Over the heads of 3am stoplight dancers through the viney brick pub where Verily bleaches the bar-tops by beersign fluorescents, past the last streetlight to blink off where Hope is marching brisk-ly through the muddy dark, under the first confused crimson leaf to fall of autumn with not an eye to see, upon the sill where Early leans/ checks the time and sighs smoke behind the window, through the Oaken Chapel doors where young ClΓΆse writes his first sermon and cries, out in the alfalfa field where the fireflies whish and Sol says goodbye to them again hoping one day theyβd take him too.
Beyond the yellow hill Where the homeless sleep alone, Illumination strikes the lens white And they are new.