Refute the clubs where drums and artful bass
drive rhythms from the night like sparks from stone
and gainly notes roll through the saxophone
like aural honey from some timeless place.
Heed not the ruly words from far away
stitched deep inside some silken aria
sustained upon a roiling orchestra:
a pulsive song in thrall to yesterday.
Here in the concrete cavern, cold as loam
where grime grows thick and moments linger long
and shadows hang, like women round a tomb:
the pallid pigeons crooning weary fear,
the distant roar of traffic caught in throng;
these are the only songs remembered here.
