Land-Wights of the City
wights of the city,
I call you!
Long neglected by the sons of man,
poured out your refuse libations from the bartender's mop-bucket,
unhonored in dank alleyways and tangled gutters,
storm drain mouths
gape and go unsated save for the
fouled life-blood of the automobile--
wasted breath and broken concrete
asphalt whorehouse roads your
hot, pebbled bed.
I bring you the clear drink,
I bring you the sweet drink
I bring you the mead of poetry;