I have not forgotten much:
The tarmac was night.
And the streetlamp’s reflection,
A full moon in a puddle of dogpiss;
Sidewalks effervesced with ghosts
That blossomed out of the cracks
In my memory of the place.
I sat solid; not of cold,
But of fear that the slightest
Tremble might clear my visions
So that the street becomes
Street, and the ghosts become floating
Faces that resemble faces
Of ghosts I have hidden, and not so well,
Below the concrete of my fears.
The morning frost
Binds my eyelashes
And for a ghastly minute
I cannot open my eyes
To rid myself of the night.
The bittercold concrete
Defeats my temperature
In ravenous vengeance,
But I don’t remember much more.