Where the blue moon hangs over the city,

the smoke and ashes have become gritty;

a haze lurks over every alley,

there is no longer a place to parley,

where the black metronome of New York beats

a forte in wine and hard liquor, Keats

in a Greenwich café with lonesome Plath…

puddles reflect winsome rain, alley cats

disappear behind tenement decay,

and Brooklyn brownstones tempt the light of Sunday.

Here, there is one last copper saxophone.

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– LILITH STREET, LABYRINTH  COMING 2024 . . .   

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