(for Steve Dalachinsky)
3:15AM. Shhh. Speak nothing now.
There’s a fading din beneath the well of silence.
It turns envious the darkling.
The sun now rises later than it once did,
4:37. September’s torrid dampness cedes to nothing
Here in Brooklyn, but
The chill of the Long Island Sound
Burroughs in Morocco,
So far from home.
4:55, this day which bordered no sleep,
Mind festering, precious pain.
The sun must rise later than it once did.
Tell me it does.
The call of gulls falls deaf on hospital walls,
Where strange machinery turns, tabulates,
And sways through
Cross-rhythms of tap, scrape,
Booming skins and shimmering bronze,
Gassing the flame of sauntering yesterday,
As after-hours haze covets
A thicket sound in vivid black
The call of Gayle in the wild, he, Streets the Clown
Seething through tubes and drips, submerged in
The unfettered, busking improvisation.
And the final night erupts joyously, leading you
South of Houston.
The colors, the shapes which fall from your pen
Cast a reflection of then into tomorrow.
Poet Laureate of Outside.
5:03AM. The sun halts in its place, as
The mist purples
Over Spring Street.
The clouds are but a
-John Pietaro, 9/16/19, 11:52pm,