at night, she shudders.
the crimson echo harbors the wind.
somewhere a grave is being robbed
and henchmen are wrenching the doors.
at night, the frivolous happens.
all beings are in the dark
as winter forms a playground of timid flakes.
somewhere the money is piling up.
the stock exchange is rising, falling.
night becomes our safe harbor
and the winds escalate to protect the interest rate.
if I had a hunch, I would know someone is watching.
over the city, the birds are crapping
and the distrust of institution is developing.
if friction were a sign of ill tidings,
the oil barons would fail without reserve.
A dog scratches his back
but the name of the game rarely changes.