Glowing under the street-light,

and condensing into the sideways

rain,

is more streetlight.

Some detached and deconstructed

bits of light,

the sad tones of Nazi Lampshade,

slipping through the radiantly polluted

night air and into

to the curbside,

where one might stand catching

smiles and raindrops,

out of time and cheap speed

and I might need batteries

as well.

And a moment of clarity, and

a raindrop caught in the streetlight:

as if the drip of some bloody libations

brought that eagle I saw, aimless,

digging in the dense mud,

days away from right now.

But what did that mean?