a flicker of wit
on the unending street
is a solace to the
credulous core.

I see a smile on
the face of your killer,
happy, handsome. not very
black and white;

and the colors
of the crayon box tear by,
complete, in order
(hopelessly lost).

traces of these ephemeron
are the traffic lights' pulse
and, perhaps, the shriek
of fury in the distance.