Posting letters on a windy night
seemed dangerous then with the great trees
lashing the sky to a whine and a roar,
whipping the terrified moon
hopping on a tightrope
taut between topsail clouds.
The sudden shriek of the fire engine
set shivering the laced chiaroscuoro
wind wild moon pattern -
twig thrashed pavements split
by pools of running lamp light spilt
along the gutters with the late rain.
The sort of night when bicyclists go mad
and waltzing two-forked men in black tights
climbing street lamps
pirouette upon their tops
and steal the bulbs
going pop and plop
thrown where the running cat
wipes its tail on a varnished wall
and scoots a hedge hole through.
The falling letters in the sheltered cage
seemed absurd, ignorant of their birthday facts
and the quick wild wings
of their only journeying.