I told the sightless boy
I would walk the dead dog
as far as the lamp post.
The last one.
This was Tuesday.
The last one.
We reached the last lamp post’s
Iron parapet with fiends,
next to the canal
dyed by evening
samite     wine
the artificial lake.

Imps. Vampires.
More imps.

And it was not enough.

The threadbare ghost of it
(emperor on the radio)
was an argument.

It was early radio dark.
The thing’s metallic snow really stank
outside the library.
He wanted me to enter it,
the brilliantly lit grocery store
for the blind
in the end,
with no end.
I refused to enter
with the dead dog dragging behind us;
I heard it back there
constantly, its rasping
ass on the earth,
friction of spirit
on atoms,
so we quarreled,
as taxis will
before the stone lions
of the Exchequer.

I helped the boy drag the dead dog
it was February by then.
Bye bye, he said,
like a psycho,
as the trains did too.
You could see the track
through the snow, glowing,
eating up dark space
as I did,
as I walked home.

I was very much under the clouds

under some postcard stars, blue,

and looked technological,

to what end

I have no idea.


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