XVII

from the balcony these people look like ants.

the night slowly crawls and hides between the buildings.

thoughts accumulate in the winter like drifts of snow.

a wallflower is like a wildflower to the last lonely beat.

the streetlights, like spotlights disturbing the sleep

of these inhabitants in lost, lonesome streets.

some nights the heat pipes just cough.

the face in the mirror's looking rough.

we drink and we dry up and we crumble into dust.