Thunder unrolling over the vulnerable city,
purple and ink blue, above the huddle of workers
scrambling to commute, some to a bar where
  neon and darkness

conspire to enfold them, the avenues alive with 
And rustling in the wind high above the age of doubt,
their transparent psyches rain wet, rent by lightning,
  spirits and angels

adrift in the jet stream know that we have to die,
each of us heavy with hope but a faint shadow trails
between what we need and what’s accessible, at noon
  rest and distraction,

nightmares at midnight. These ministers query
then relinquish us, but not before this one listens
for alarms or burns, the bang of passing time,
  that one retreating,

skin all aglitter, for whom the avenue of blooms
shall never spell “love.” The drinkers murmur their
ancestors’ games, getting it right without
  knowing the meaning,

code deviation: Drink, and drink. For that teacher
boys were everything, once, holding their breath
and proving their passion from a few paces away.
  They can be cocksure,

crowded illusions, old pals, school buddies, dodging
into the past you should resurrect, or guess at,
a dim throng resemblance, who thought of your
  soul as a plaything—