Transcendence, please —
The unforgiving evening has wrapped its shredded shawl
Around us all, the castaways spellbound,
Chattering and weeping.
We shiver over dim fires beneath a green tent
— Steel drums, liquor and guitars.
Our face meets your face
Like our eyes meet the light,
Poor children of the central nervous naked moon
Seeking entrance to the cold of the cities' exposed glow,
Peeking through the evening's shroud.
With autumn winds come autumn sadness,
Grates throbbing with lentian Toulouse-Lautrec light,
A long-lost romance offering one last clear chance.
The harvest guitars bleat like ghosts
Before they are put to one wall
To wear the faces of the dead.
