© 1996 Dave Awl

Letter (4/24/96)

Night coy and vulnerable falls prey to the
cologne-heavy charms of the yellow sulphurous
streetlamp. The hard dull concrete reflects
the strange luminosity of their union, and
the early spring air is full of the dreaming
minds of city dwellers, which having fled
the skulls of their owners like so many crepe
paper bats flutter in late april confusion among
bare branches and powercables. Listen to
the hush and hum of the traffic, the urban
tides lapping against oily shores. There is no
sleep in the city, only dormancy. No darkness, only
shadow, and the heavy slate-grey lid
of sky that tells you there is nowhere to
go, go back to bed, go back to your artificial
unoblivion. But you don’t. You swarm like a
nightflying insect, you buzz and obsess, you rise
till you burst and rain down across the city
like a powder of desperate metal.