What a lovely, lonely-wondrous city
where Abraham's descendants would have been approximately
five or seven by the count of stars,
like blindly bought celestial cigarettes and match heads
circling around behind the clouds of rancid smoke
as this old sky pontificates and gestures.
Better, more beautiful to stare into the only working streetlamp
and pretend that it's the moon that isn't up there anyplace.
It flickers and burns, but it hasn't gone out yet;
hope it does, though: I'd turn and weep on no one's distant shoulder,
whisper at the empty crowded ocean of a city sky:
How the hell do I, do I get out of
sitting on the outside?