In silence love's allowed to rot itself,
So, buried in the wind the drunkards sing.
The night's street song narrates the dread not health
Of men, their girls, and paranoia's sting.
My bones are tart with drink, I'm drained
Of art, or any form of craft. My feet
Grow bruised to match the bruises on my brain,
And my blood is black to ward off work's defeat.
Above the maple boughs that flirt in shapes
And rush in whispered kisses, tribal touch,
Or dances, gray winds play their strings like blades,
With purity of purpose in their clutch.
Despite the barring rage of noise collapsing,
Your beauty's work is done: insight, escaping.