Flirt with metal,
yellow and gold;
let the rising fall
take its reluctant hold.
Bang a drum,
cymbal aside,
to move away;
to move up like a fool.
Fatigue is a structure,
leaning and proud,
thumping on heartstrings
that pluck ever-loud.
Gross in misconduct;
the streets mumble my name.
A magnetic cartload
of secrets and shame.
Pick to be picked
and held aloft with the beasts;
holes in the road
palpitate without relief.
Traffic is denounced
by horses and reigns
to blossom abroad
if it’s all the same?