Dead leaves are strewn and blown, wildly like drunken men.
They’ve brought the beaten road to its lowest level;
To the beacon where trucks mimic life, moving
Almost stately, pass ruins and dilapidated homes
Which were built to withstand common weather; wry
Rains, combative snows, all the more gorgeous in rage.
It is blasphemy to think you won’t go on selecting
Trifle battles to wage; pink slips one can
Almost wear; a lingerie of the proletariat
A slattern might don in hopes of revelation.
There is work to be done when worlds draw taut breaths.
Each night, third shift workers go by like children having
A time of it; a solemnity lives even in desperate
Darkness; it lives and envelopes the working poor
Who still behave like dreams breathe deeply for them.
They see a sort of Kafkaesque nightlife which absorbs
For them reality; the hustle and bustle reduced
To a nightmarish aria, like a man turning into
A breast that even a hungry life won’t suckle.
They see the moon and know it’s a steady clock
Keeping time, assured from the beginning,
Its singularity, supporting you, as you go
In through cruel barriers. Streets now safe
For traveling, its gravel chooses to be loved.