Paul Look
Night waits
He knows the night is on the prowl.
It stands outside the bar room door
waiting to grip him by the throat
and make him walk the pavements wet
with rain that slashes through the dark
and lances upward through his shoes.
Now he must leave the yellow light
to wrestle with inimical dark;
hunch his shoulders down the street,
gasping to outrun the spurts of flame
that gouge the splinters from the walls
and aim to gouge a cleavage in his heart.
Page(s) 96
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