Switchblade knife revealed in pale moon light;
people speaking, their silence saying more;
an oceanic heart bursting on the shore
of this ancient black cloth spotted with white.
Ah, love prowls with claws withdrawn late tonight
as blindmen wait at corners to cross o'er
and vile passion sits behind a locked door.
Can there be nothing to set this aright?
The phone rings; a voice answers as the past
is soon recalled: “Let us once again meet,”
she says, “Ours was a promise that should last.”
My blood is spread on my skin like a sheet –
no hopes or accusations can be cast –
just: “I'll not see you again, empty street.”
circa 1975
