I stagger home at night beneath a sky
the yellow-grey of concrete stained with piss.
The moon, jaundiced and puffy, doesn't try
to haul itself above the roofs; but this,
like bleating car alarms and battered feet,
is part of city life. A tar-black night
would be like finding chickens in the street.
In desert lands I've marvelled at the sight
of clouds of stars, like talcum powder spilt
on velvet, spread so wide they left me feeling
sober. But would I swap this human-built
extravagance for that enormous ceiling
of glowing light-effects, however good?
Of course not. But it's nice to know I could.
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