Night Tour
Then there is the night
with its backstreets of characters,
masked, intractable, unwilling
to leave the comfort of their
lifelong haunts. They call out
then turn away in fear
of being known.
And below, the corridors
of the underground winding through
sleepless hours,
the constant echo of footsteps
and voices punctured
by announcements of departures
to nameless places. Images cast
on grimey walls passing in haste,
doors slamed shut.
Nothing sutures together,
consciousness becomes fragments
glimpsed on screens,
splintered sounds,
words finding no meaning.
And having brought you here
what can I offer you
but the pricked chill
of an anesthetic
being eased into a vein,
the oblivion of dreamless sleep,
then daybreak bleeding through
the stuck lid of an eye,
the first thin incision of hope.
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