Sunday, December 22


the puddles swell ballrooms
for London
streetlamps to dance upon
& twisting here the bus
wheel comes through to applaud
the crowd;

over the trousers of my bottom
the crowd linger
the dance continues
the scent of passing storm
yellow wooed, the golden
is there alight—

what if a keen song
is mine to be followed
home, drunken rainwater?

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