The roads west late in the afternoon
lead to an orange horizon,
moon-struck across the sky; yet the mellow glow
leaves the doorways anxious and dark.
Strange glimmers brighten the window-panes
into native ornaments, and i am lost,
so i take notice, before a traffic light in heaven.
Alas, color-bright shadows are better on foot.
From the street i gather the cement wilderness to laugh,
a broken bed, it be, fashioned for a lonely old birch,
ready high to eulogize the day's talk, in pale splendor;
and the rumble of light traffic
reaches my ears as chaos. The dull beams
of a spacious soup kitchen near the light keep no faith
with the pride of the sun, and busy themselves
with the humdrum affairs of the derelict feasters,
bound to their careless customs, whose soup-carrots
no longer reach out to the sun for light.
Sooner than soon the fed-up congregation
will be run over reckless, and destroyed,
by a pilotless meteor rattling along
a left turn and a few clouds down the street.
The devil's truth gone to mere glimmer
is reflected, yet the same, to fade out at day's end.
People mill around like lazy insects now;
the bustle and booze of night-time
encroach a bit and a little bit further each few minutes
the shaded red lamp fades into black clouds,
as if roulette should please the darkest heavens,
and i am struck with the way the sunset
leaves the senses no token
of its daily sojourn.