in the center,
we still dream of going there

* * *

laughter, soft-stepping air
the night came crowded
in cloudy lunar hands,
vagabond paws
clutching despair, envy,
the willful reproach of
	the passers-through here

* * *

places past and present
incredible torture, you would
not let us through
gifting fists, we fought Saul
you the memories
	of the Goblins
	of the soul

* * *

your heroes
are not my own

* * *

the inner sorrow-
a moment encased
in the mythology of my mind
I closed a door,

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16 Renford Road (two)
Page 27