Sitting with Angel Midnight
By Kurt Parsons

                    Ink drains out of the pen 
think brains out of pensive perversion 
green grows up hugging cracks in the sidewalk 
cars crumple the city into so many miles 
the wise are waiting 
the damned smile.
                    So is the pen in my hand 
so is the body in my brain 
so is the view when I look down 
so is the sound of the range 
so are my friends 
so are my friends. 
                    All these keep on long past twilight 
and miracles are ever-waiting for actors 
to play those parts they write 
and all of time is waiting for cigarettes in the night 
to light their burning, to strike their eyes 
while some future calamity is being made 
on the other end of the earth.  
                    And it may be unmade 
or it may strike.