Sharper with his eyes turned inward
A side street with lightless cats
Dark orbs to be supposed!
In a hand too thin for shaking
In a night too bleak for waking;
Breaking and then always return a different way.
Vast hours still dodder back to forward
A drunken awkward clock stammers
Each instant hammer dithers!
Dirty boots as black dogs guarding
The entry that leases the dark inn;
Momentary faces which audibly pale upon entering.
Suppers vanish gnashed in lip curls outward
Abandoned hands in quaking loathing
Here in loafs weevils go roaming!
Thick a rind of fogs un-seeing
Through loss each still breathing
Timid loins linger awhile not to frown but smile.
The hovel is blessed again with sleeping
A cauldron of minds blessed with unbelieving
Wrapped in spun garrets muck clothe steaming
The luckless mobs gulp deep down an evening.
