We have noticed it breaking as the hours pass,
an incapable pewter sunset without the
tumultuous hills, rustling like prairie grass.
We have danced upon decaying bath mats,
in dustbin motels, the indigenous squalour of blue-vein Inns.
We beheld our feet as they were drenched to the thigh,
pondered why we did not fall,
and overall, we were confused.
II
Collars cannot shelter you from this chill
that pulls the hairs from your back.
A concentrated attack that pulls you down
- And lucky you were the stairs broke your fall -
into the tunnels that circulate the town where rats would be king,
and nature melts like a led paint upon a dying wall,
in which flickering electric bulbs bring
promises of 'Budapest in the spring!'
And there I heard whispers from old men on wardrobe racks
(in between the clickety-clacks of passing tracks
that file away the minutes in large, locked stacks)
of how we all should fair,
to the merits of using an oil in our hair,
or whether the weatherman is a trusted fool.
And they spoke on in such a nature
that the world seemed for a moment but a child,
crying out for its absent mother.
And before I had chance
to grant the passing thought a shape before it went,
it did but pay its fare, vanish, and cast a wake of disappointment.
And until I came upon my chance,
the rejoin the hustle of the town above
(that devoted bustle in search of love)
I was not sure we should see another moment flicker,
and pass us by with heavy heart,
should these gentle old creatures cry wolf,
and before our eyes, depart.