There is another, a passerby
Of fifties music and Italian eyes
A dark coat from which the ends of the coat-rope
Men's hearts hang aloof
Pinned and steady, but in constant waver
Beseeching a soulful one night stare
When all becomes dark and inner death
Lurks beyond honey coloured hair
Waiting beyond curtains till eleven
When all memory becomes a fading perception
Of the sky at noon
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