Men are mere images

I  had to open the window in a hurry
Afraid  that the night would go  away
Yesterday I had held  to it for a while
Only to see it melt away with the crow.
The dog is  barking in a low of throat
At  car-phantoms he sees in darkness
With echoes of its barks for company.
My pictures worked better with night
When men could do their strange acts
In the backstage, hurling their arms
In  air for nothing into a space of trees.

In the morning the bare-armed man
Would again flutter limbs into the air
And drink from his bottle triangularly.
Yesterday ,when the park grass in dew
Tingled underfoot ,by the green bench
I saw a black shirt  run as if chasing fear.
I  am wondering if it  has since caught it.
My images worked better with the night
When men walked about as visual files
Captured in the park's tender sunlight .


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