as the late evening washes away
the withered traces of daylight,
i watch from the drenched window
as the weary shadows of passers-by
plunge into the whispers of the rain
and ask debussy if i can see the light
of the lighthouse on the other side
of the street again, but all he offers
is a bit of moonlight melancholy
for ninety-ninepence a track.
a blind man’s buff goes
without light.
hidden pilcrow 