The buildings' flames freeze in tourists' Medusa
gaze, turpentine scent in choke
of thousand Cinderellas throwing flood lights
out in four-four time.
The trestle cut of mid-noon dress flappings,
ink quill and water strain at once;
a dance across midnight's pitch would
be coming for us in fantasy.
The thing wedge-edge of cooling conversation,
mewling bonfire crackle through a Sutton-like
dusk; only the splintered tree stumps to talk with,
only the trenchant flesh wounds to trace.