the streets,
empty
as a killer’s
dream, gape like
the dispossessed.
the moon is
suicidal,
hanging there
with no safety
net; she grins malevolently,
envious of the
silence.
the sky is over-
filled with
stars
and yet,
like the beggar,
complains of
loneliness and
hunger.
posters in broken
windows,
flapping in the
dark
like a dead pigeon’s
wings,
advertise
death; while the wind and
rain
howl like an army in
retreat.
alley walls glow with street
calligraphy,
just another cold empty
chapel,
as
somewhere in a
nearby bar a sinuous
ghost
dances for some lonely
men, one of whom
tries to catch her
stocking;
but
it slips sadly through his
fingers
and falls to the
floor.
twelve of us here
tonight,
but we are
ugly,
our scrolls aren’t made of
gold, and our
words are
empty and
strange.

I cannot break the
back
of this god-
forsaken
city,
but I know that
you
who gave us this
life
will
be
judged.