The brashness of a gray afternoon curses
at roadside bars, all night diners and clotheslines
resembling sagging roadmaps.
Mud flaps proselytize to the lost while angels
search for the abandoned; neon lights tempt the lonely
from corners.
In the distance, a city. A breath spread wide of
buildings and faces, where evil drains into collars and
sweat is salted by the ravaging of circling crows.
Roger Singer 