Refute the clubs where drums and artful bass

drive rhythms from the night like sparks from stone

and gainly notes roll through the saxophone 

like aural honey from some timeless place.

Heed not the ruly words from far away

stitched deep inside some silken aria 

sustained upon a roiling orchestra:

a pulsive song in thrall to yesterday.

 

Here in the concrete cavern, cold as loam

where grime grows thick and moments linger long

and shadows hang, like women round a tomb:

 

the pallid pigeons crooning weary fear,

the distant roar of traffic caught in throng;

these are the only songs remembered here.