the drunken bloom in mourning stinks
of business and ruin
the air hangs in lumps
about lithe young men beginning to slide
into the morning.
the bloody crowd clatters across a Sunday
all rampaging in catastrophic name only
the blessed track which lifts joyously the fear of the
Eyes waltz in heads
containing false profits
the disease is always worse than the cure
in early light stands an angry word
in the shape of a man on a darkened bridge.
Something sold drops into the depths below.
For Vic Haboush- 1924-2009