Night.

Night is a shadow, and in its abyss, a devil-eyed glow burns

from the tip of a cigarette.

We meet

in secret shadows

to the scent of cigarette puffs; secrets stuffed in

silver lockets...

The hand of night is heavy, oppressive; as demanding as the city

that surrounds us – a burnt Babylon.

You are Sodom to my Gomorrah.

We are still; backs pressed against the cool brick wall as we

inhale,  exhale…

The smoke flumes up into tiny puffs; ghosts, trailing the darkness before

converging with the stars.

(Inhale, exhale… It is almost time).

The shadows spread, and the secrets lie

between us – [a catacomb of wounds].

Over the buildings, the Brooklyn Bridge;

Prospect Park and cemetery gates - and you are gone.