Dithyramb: Nocturnal

Twilight sees to the careful undressing of old men. The lights come on:

A sudden ceremony under sodden starlight,

a rapid blinking,

a neon sublimation.

It is time.

The temples are purple with plasticine orgies;

the ruins are wet with the staggered, perforated amours of the sleepless.

Troupes from the Workers’ Theaters people the bars; the streetlights become racemic, press themselves for wine, bleed wine, soak the dark with drunken, inordinate light, entr’actes of inordinate undarkness. The workers sing sometimes, and drink without exception.

The city night is fecund and dreams of poems.

The moonlight broods in limpid pallor; the sage beneath the willow tree considers its pallor; and every clock hesitates—

The fountains are crumbling; the fairies are wingless.

The panderers are flowering:

iris in darkness, shadowgilded.

Dawn will widen in Night’s bright womb.

It is time.

“…the forever dripping from the skies,

the quiet lambency falling from the dark of the night’s distant arc.”