The cul-de-sac’s stopped clocks, howling wolf once too often, whined warnings I dreamt through, welcomes you snubbed, pawed at your 4AM footsteps. Grilled windows hatched their weak tartan schemes over the offering you were eyeing. No rite, no ceremony: a pyre of piled laundry stripped with deftness unbecoming while I snored. Black straps helped practiced hands withdraw their neatly packaged prize, but such easy sacrilege won what? A case without its glasses, enambered light escaping leaky shutters, chaste gelpoints inspiration wouldn’t dare to touch, and the 10s, 20s, 50s, adrift in foreign currents. Still——enough to break a dawn, and a trail for this moth who flutters against the fan that waved on misplaced faith.
With apologies to John Hollander.