From hotels
in the middle of the night
I'm calling you out.
To candles cling tentative flames,
but they burn just the same,
just in case you forget.

Sick in the silt
of the strangest taste
I've hated today.
Still something sings within the vein,
as I forget to fail,
I forget to complain.

How much more
can we stand to say
before clouds complain?
Soaked to that critical stage
with the overdressed words
of the well-meaning vague.

How much
will the Leitmotiv sway
to compensate
for our fallow-yet-vigorous play
on the century's take
on the lived-but-yet-named?

Hold out, hold out,
because this moon is twice as good
when you see through a year of nights
what you thought you understood.
Set out, set out
because this haze is bound to wane.
It can no longer pretend to hide
the will of third-class seats
on tommorrow's trains.

See also:
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