Though most people prefer to mourn
a city’s lost daydream,
this is no hotbed of freebooting magic:
a caravan, hotel, sleeping children.
Breakfast on aspirins as another night
breaks up in dreams of sexual betrayal.
Creep out haggard in the brazen dawn
through wormcasts and iron dew.
Nature is ticking like a bicycle.
The year washes out departing birds like tea-leaves.
Wait till the stars are again crisp overhead,
till sirens fill the electric night.
Once more search those dark and cluttered
faces for the mother of your sons.
Rootless and footloose, blurt out your sperm.
Everywhere you are followed
by a TV camera like a butterfly net.
This is the arc-light of winter.
Martin TURNER
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/fragment-6/
