Vicious Aliens (continued)

Cycle 10

CYCLE 10

Darkness fell on Broadway and 79th

where the nameless poet roamed,

And when the yellow lamps had jaded

the nameless poet was gone

---

There was no living witness

to his disappearance 

in winter’s bosom,

Not a word escaped his throat

---

No exclamation or cry,

no utterance or sigh

could be heard

by those that passed 

a photocopied sign

above a heap of other notes

---

Words emblazoned on a page

in time would fade 

and like the poet’s clothes 

would mock the season

---

His worn countenance belied

a voice that shocked the age,

a sound that soothed the rage,

of his generation’s unreason 

---

Heavy was the hour

when the clock made its round

giving way to daylight’s

undeserved clarity

---

No investigation spanned

the sidewalks or the blocks

From West Side apartments

to industrial docks

---

Crooked cops looked on 

with stock expressions,

repeating the poet’s name

in ways that mimicked false confessions

---

Poetry shores up shelters in time

securing truth against nature’s anti-design,

In the struggle against ash and cloud

Pulse on, thou emerald fireflies

---

Now, the poet is a ghost that is invoked

when spirits commingle and provoke

lies that dance among true belief,

to greet the dawn as justice weeps 

---

—Anonymous, Winter at The Apthorp (fragments)