there is a cobblestone lane
lined with oil lamps
and pocked with rain.
Galaxies of light unfold
in ripples spreading out
in gathered darkness
puddled at the bottom
of a high hill.
The ragged man
with the blue glow
hears a violin in his soul
cut a coarse chord
that says I'm so damn tired
of this. It isn't his loneliness though
he knows as well
as high halls
and crystal chandeliers.
He'd like to pound a harpsichord
until it squeals like a pig. For
some reason he can't explain
he knows traces of God
puddle in the mire
at the bottom of the high hill
where a long tide pushes in
to fill the mud flats
obsidian pocked
by cold hard rain.
© Steve Brown 2010
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