Nothing is real but reality in a watercolour
fog washed with the secretions of the graveyard
shift, like the yawner’s mention of a scarlet dawn.
Is it the fool moon mocking the street lamps
with reflected light that holds terror for one,
or is it the crunch of pebbles with each tired step?
And while the outline of meals has long lost its meaning,
they are still necessary to keep up appearances.
After all, any of them could be supper.
hidden pilcrow 